SARACINESCA 


BY 

F.  MARION  CRAWFORD 

AUTHOR  OP  ‘MR.  ISAACS,’  ‘  DR.  CLAUDIUS,’  ‘A  ROMAN  SINGER,’ 
‘ZOROASTER,’  ‘A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH,’  ETC. 


Neto  gork 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 
1894 


All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT 

1887 

BY 

F.  MARION  CRAWFORD 


First  printed  in  1887. 

New  Uniform  Edition  set  up  and  electrotyped  Aug.  6,  1891. 
Reprinted  October ,  1892  ;  January ,  1893. 


ROBERT  DRUMMOND,  ELECTROTYPER  AND  PRINTER,  NEW  YORK. 


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REMOTE  STORAGE 


NOTE 


It  was  at  first  feared  that  the  name  Saracinesca,  as  it 
is  now  printed,  might  be  attached  to  an  unused  title  in  the 
possession  of  a  Roman  house.  The  name  was  therefore 
printed  with  an  additional  consonant — “  Sarracinesca  ” — in 
the  pages  of  ‘Blackwood's  Magazine.’  After  careful  inquiry, 
the  original  spelling  is  now  restored. 

Sorrento,  March  1887. 


702375 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/saracinesca00craw_2 


SARACINESCA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In'  the  year  1865  Rome  was  still  in  a  great  measure  its  old  self. 
It  had  not  then  acquired  that  modern  air  which  is  now  begin¬ 
ning  to  pervade  it.  The  Corso  had  not  been  widened  and 
whitewashed;  the  Villa  Aldobrandini  had  not  been  cut  through 
to  make  the  Via  Nazionale;  the  south  wing  of  the  Palazzo 
Colonna  still  looked  upon  a  narrow  lane  through  which  men 
hesitated  to  pass  after  dark;  the  Tiber’s  course  had  not  then 
been  corrected  below  the  Farnesina;  the  Farnesina  itself  was 
but  just  under  repair;  the  iron  bridge  at  the  Ripetta  was  not 
dreamed  of;  and  the  Prati  di  Castello  were  still,  as  their  name 
implies,  a  series  of  waste  meadows.  At  the  southern  extremity 
of  the  city,  the  space  between  the  fountain  of  Moses  and  the 
newly  erected  railway  station,  running  past  the  Baths  of  Dio¬ 
cletian,  was  still  an  exercising-ground  for  the  French  cavalry. 
Even  the  people  in  the  streets  then  presented  an  appearance 
very  different  from  that  which  is  now  observed  by  the  visitors 
and  foreigners  who  come  to  Rome  in  the  winter.  French  dra¬ 
goons  and  hussars,  French  infantry  and  French  officers,  were 
everywhere  to  be  seen  in  great  numbers,  mingled  with  a  goodly 
sprinkling  of  the  Papal  Zouaves,  whose  grey  Turco  uniforms 
with  bright  red  facings,  red  sashes,  and  short  yellow  gaiters, 
gave  colour  to  any  crowd.  A  fine  corps  of  men  they  were,  too, 
counting  hundreds  of  gentlemen  in  their  ranks,  and  officered 
by  some  of  the  best  blood  in  France  and  Austria.  In  those 
days  also  were  to  be  seen  the  great  coaches  of  the  cardinals, 
with  their  gorgeous  footmen  and  magnificent  black  horses,  the 
huge  red  umbrellas  lying  upon  the  top,  while  from  the  open 
windows  the  stately  princes  of  the  Church  from  time  to  time 
returned  the  salutations  of  the  pedestrians  in  the  street.  And 
often  in  the  afternoon  there  was  heard  the  tramp  of  horse  as  a 
detachment  of  the  noble  guards  trotted  down  the  Corso  on 
their  great  chargers,  escorting  the  holy  Father  himself,  while 


2 


SARACINESCA. 


all  who  met  him  dropped  upon  one  knee  and  uncovered  their 
heads  to  receive  the  benediction  of  the  mild-eyed  old  man  with 
the  beautiful  features,  the  head  of  Church  and  State.  Many  a 
time,  too,  Pius  IX.  would  descend  from  his  coach  and  walk 
upon  the  Pincio,  all  clothed  in  white,  stopping  sometimes  to 
talk  with  those  who  accompanied  him,  or  to  lay  his  gentle 
hand  on  the  fair  curls  of  some  little  English  child  that  paused 
from  its  play  in  awe  and  admiration  as  the  Pope  went  by.  For 
he  loved  children  well,  and  most  of  all,  children  with  golden 
hair — angels,  not  Angles,  as  Gregory  said. 

I  As  for  the  fashions  of  those  days,  it  is  probable  that  most  of 
us  would  sutler  severe  penalties  rather  than  return  to  them, 
beautiful  as  they  then  appeared  to  us  by  contrast  with  the 
exaggerated  crinoline  and  flower-garden  bonnet,  which  had 
given  way  to  the  somewhat  milder  form  of  hoop-skirt  madness, 
but  had  not  yet  flown  to  the  opposite  extreme  in  the  invention 
of  the  close-fitting  jirincesse  garments  of  1868.  But,  to  each 
other,  people  looked  then  as  they  look  now.  Fashion  in  dress, 
concerning  which  nine-tenths  of  society  gives  itself  so  much 
trouble,  appears  to  exercise  less  influence  upon  men  and  women 
in  their  relations  towards  each  other  than  does  any  other  pro¬ 
duct  of  human  ingenuity.  Provided  every  one  is  in  the  fashion, 
everything  goes  on  in  the  age  of  high  heels  and  gowns  tied 
back  precisely  as  it  did  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  when  people 
wore  flat  shoes,  and  when  gloves  with  three  buttons  had  not 
been  dreamed  of — when  a  woman,  of  most  moderate  dimensions 
occupied  three  or  four  square  yards  of  space  upon  a  ball-room 
floor,  and  men  wore  peg-top  trousers.  Human  beings  since  the 
days  of  Adam  seem  to  have  retired  like  caterpillars  into  cocoons 
of  dress,  expecting  constantly  the  wondrous  hour  when  they 
shall  emerge  from  their  self-woven  prison  in  the  garb  of  the 
angelic  butterfly,  having  entered  into  the  chrysalis  state  as  mere 
human  grubs.  But  though  they  both  toil  and  spin  at  their 
garments,  and  vie  with  Solomon  in  his  glory  to  outshine  the 
lily  of  the  field,  the  humanity  of  the  grub  shows  no  signs  of 
developing  either  in  character  or  appearance  in  the  direction  of 
anything  particularly  angelic. 

It  was  not  the  dress  of  the  period  which  gave  to  the  streets 
of  Rome  their  distinctive  feature.  It  would  be  hard  to  say, 
now  that  so  much  is  changed,  wherein  the  peculiar  charm  of 
the  old-time  city  consisted;  but  it  was  there,  nevertheless,  and 
made  itself  felt  so  distinctly  beyond  the  charm  of  any  other 
place,  that  the  very  fascination  of  Rome  was  proverbial.  Per¬ 
haps  no  spot  in  Europe  has  ever  possessed  such  an  attractive 
individuality.  In  those  days  there  were  many  foreigners,  too,  as 
there  are  to-dav,  both  residents  apd  yjsitQrs;  but  they  seemed 


SARACINESCA. 


3 


to  belong  to  a  different  class  of  humanity.  They  seemed  less 
inharmonious  to  their  surroundings  then  than  now,  less  offen¬ 
sive  to  the  general  air  of  antiquity.  Probably  they  were  more 
in  earnest;  they  came  to  Rome  with  the  intention  of  liking  the 
place,  rather  than  of  abusing  the  cookery  in  the  hotels.  They 
came  with  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  history,  the  literature, 
and  the  manners  of  the  ancients,  derived  from  an  education 
which  in  those  days  taught  more  through  the  classics  and  less 
through  handy  text-books  and  shallow  treatises  concerning  the 
Renaissance;  they  came  with  preconceived  notions  which  were 
often  strongly  dashed  with  old-fashioned  prejudice,  but  which 
did  not  lack  originality:  they  come  now  in  the  smattering 
mood,  imbued  with  no  genuine  beliefs,  but  covered  with  ex¬ 
ceeding  thick  varnish.  Old  gentlemen  then  visited  the  sights 
in  the  morning,  and  quoted  Horace  to  each  other,  and  in  the 
evening  endeavoured  by  associating  with  Romans  to  understand 
something  of  Rome;  young  gentlemen  now  spend  one  or  two 
mornings  in  finding  fault  with  the  architecture  of  Bramante, 
and  “  in  the  evening,”  like  David’s  enemies,  “  they  grin  like  a 
dog  and  run  about  the  city  :  ”  young  women  were  content  to 
find  much  beauty  in  the  galleries  and  in  the  museums,  and 
were  simple  enough  to  admire  what  they  liked;  young  ladies 
of  the  present  day  can  find  nothing  to  admire  except  their 
own  perspicacity  in  detecting  faults  in  Raphael’s  drawing  or 
Michael  Angelo’s  colouring.  This  is  the  age  of  incompetent 
criticism  in  matters  artistic,  and  no  one  is  too  ignorant  to 
volunteer  an  opinion.  It  is  sufficient  to  have  visited  half-a- 
dozen  Italian  towns,  and  to  have  read  a  few  pages  of  fashionable 
aesthetic  literature — no  other  education  is  needed  to  fit  the 
intelligent  young  critic  for  his  easy  task.  The  art  of  paradox 
can  be  learned  in  five  minutes,  and  practised  by  any  child;  it 
consists  chiefly  in  taking  two  expressions  of  opinion  from  dif¬ 
ferent  authors,  halving  them,  and  uniting  the  first  half  of  the 
one  with  the  second  half  of  the  other.  The  result  is  invariably 
startling,  and  generally  incomprehensible.  When  a  young 
society  critic  knows  how  to  be  startling  and  incomprehensible, 
his  reputation  is  soon  made,  for  people  readily  believe  that 
what  they  cannot  understand  is  profound,  and  anything  which 
astonishes  is  agreeable  to  a  taste  deadened  by  a  surfeit  of 
spices.  But  in  1865  the  taste  of  Europe  was  in  a  very  different 
state.  The  Second  Empire  was  in  its  glory.  M.  Emile  Zola  had 
not  written  his  6  Assommoir.’  Count  Bismarck  had  only  just 
brought  to  a  successful  termination  the  first  part  of  his  tri- 
machy;  Sadowa  and  Sedan  were  yet  unfought.  Garibaldi  had 
won  Naples,  and  Cavour  had  said,  “  If  we  did  for  ourselves 
what  we  are  doing  for  Italy,  we  should  be  great  scoundrels;  ” 


4 


SARACINESCA. 


but  Garibaldi  had  not  yet  failed  at  Mentana,  nor  had  Austria 
ceded  Venice.  Cardinal  Antonelli  had  yet  ten  years  of  life 
before  him  in  which  to  maintain  his  gallant  struggle  for  the 
remnant  of  the  temporal  power;  Pius  IX.  was  to  live  thirteen 
years  longer,  just  long  enough  to  outlive  by  one  month  the 
“  honest  king,”  Victor  Emmanuel.  Antonelli’s  influence  per¬ 
vaded  Rome,  and  to  a  great  extent  all  the  Catholic  Courts  of 
Europe;  yet  he  was  far  from  popular  with  the  Romans.  The 
Jesuits,  however,  were  even  less  popular  than  he,  and  certainly 
received  a  much  larger  share  of  abuse.  For  the  Romans  love 
faction  more  than  party,  and  understand  it  better;  so  that 
popular  opinion  is  too  frequently  represented  by  a  transitory 
frenzy,  violent  and  pestilent  while  it  lasts,  utterly  insignificant 
when  it  has  spent  its  fury. 

But  Rome  in  those  days  was  peopled  solely  by  Romans, 
whereas  now  a  large  proportion  of  the  population  consists  of 
Italians  from  the  north  and  south,  who  have  been  attracted  to 
the  capital  by  many  interests — races  as  different  from  its 
former  citizens  as  Germans  or  Spaniards,  and  unfortunately 
not  disposed  to  show  overmuch  good-fellowship  or  loving-kind¬ 
ness  to  the  original  inhabitants.  The  Roman  is  a  grumbler  by 
nature,  but  he  is  also  a  “  peace-at-any-price  ”  man.  Politicians 
and  revolutionary  agents  have  more  than  once  been  deceived 
by  these  traits,  supposing  that  because  the  Roman  grumbled 
he  really  desired  change,  but  realising  too  late,  when  the 
change  has  been  begun,  that  that  same  Roman  is  but  a  luke¬ 
warm  partisan.  The  Papal  Government  repressed  grumbling 
as  a  nuisance,  and  the  people  consequently  took  a  delight  in 
annoying  the  authorities  by  grumbling  in  secret  places  and 
calling  themselves  conspirators.  The  harmless  whispering  of 
petty  discontent  was  mistaken  by  the  Italian  party  for  the 
low  thunder  of  a  smothered  volcano;  but,  the  change  being 
brought  about,  the  Italians  find  to  their  disgust  that  the 
Roman  meant  nothing  by  his  murmurings,  and  that  he  now 
not  only  still  grumbles  at  everything,  but  takes  the  trouble  to 
fight  the  Government  at  every  point  which  concerns  the  in¬ 
ternal  management  of  the  city.  In  the  days  before  the  change, 
a  paternal  Government  directed  the  affairs  of  the  little  State, 
and  thought  it  best  to  remove  all  possibility  of  strife  by  giving 
the  grumblers  no  voice  in  public  or  economic  matters.  The 
grumblers  made  a  grievance  of  this;  and  then,  as  soon  as  the 
grievance  had  been  redressed,  they  redoubled  their  complaints 
and  retrenched  themselves  within  the  infallibility  of  inaction, 
on  the  principle  that  men  who  persist  in  doing  nothing  cannot 
possibly  do  wrong. 

Those  were  the  days,  too,  of  the  old  school  of  artists — men 


SARACINESCA. 


5 


who,  if  their  powers  of  creation  were  not  always  proportioned 
to  their  ambition  for  excellence,  were  as  superior  to  their  more 
recent  successors  in  their  pure  conceptions  of  what  art  should 
be  as  Apelles  was  to  the  Pompeian  wall-painters,  and  as  the 
Pompeians  were  to  modern  house-decorators.  The  age  of 
Overbeck  and  the  last  religious  painters  was  almost  past,  but 
the  age  of  fashionable  artistic  debauchery  had  hardly  begun. 
Water-colour  was  in  its  infancy;  wood-engraving  was  hardly 
yet  a  great  profession;  but  the  “  Dirty  Boy” had  not  yet  taken 
a  prize  at  Paris,  nor  had  indecency  become  a  fine  art.  'The 
French  school  had  not  demonstrated  the  startling  distinction 
between  the  nude  and  the  naked,  nor  had  the  English  school 
dreamed  nightmares  of  anatomical  distortion. 

Darwin's  theories  had  been  propagated,  but  had  not  yet  been 
passed  into  law,  and  very  few  Romans  had  heard  of  them;  still 
less  had  any  one  been  found  to  assert  that  the  real  truth  of 
these  theories  would  be  soon  demonstrated  retrogressively  by 
the  rapid  degeneration  of  men  into  apes,  while  apes  would 
hereafter  have  cause  to  congratulate  themselves  upon  not 
having  developed  into  men.  Many  theories  also  were  then 
enjoying  vast  popularity  which  have  since  fallen  low  in  the 
popular  estimation.  Prussia  was  still,  in  theory,  a  Power  of 
the  second  class,  and  the  empire  of  Louis  Napoleon  was  sup¬ 
posed  to  possess  elements  of  stability.  The  great  civil  war  in 
the  United  States  had  just  been  fought,  and  people  still 
doubted  whether  the  republic  would  hold  together.  It  is  hard 
to  recall  the  common  beliefs  of  those  times.  A  great  part  of 
the  political  creed  of  twenty  years  ago  seems  now  a  mass  of 
idiotic  superstition,  in  no  wise  preferable,  as  Macaulay  would 
have  said,  to  the  Egyptian  worship  of  cats  and  onions.  Never¬ 
theless,  then,  as  now,  men  met  together  secretly  in  cellars  and 
dens,  as  well  as  in  drawing-rooms  and  clubs,  and  whispered 
together,  and  said  their  theories  were  worth  something,  and 
ought  to  be  tried.  The  word  republic  possessed  then,  as  now, 
a  delicious  attraction  for  people  who  had  grievances;  and 
although,  after  the  conquest  of  Naples,  Garibaldi  had  made  a 
sort  of  public  abjuration  of  republican  principles,  so  far  as 
Italy  was  concerned,  the  plotters  of  all  classes  persisted  in 
coupling  his  name  with  the  idea  of  a  commonwealth  erected  on 
the  plan  of  “sois  mon  frere  ou  je  te  tue.”  Profound  silence  on 
the  part  of  Governments,  and  a  still  more  guarded  secrecy  on 
the  part  of  conspiring  bodies,  were  practised  as  the  very  first 
principle  of  all  political  operations.  No  copyist,  at  half-a- 
crown  an  hour,  had  yet  betrayed  the  English  Foreign  Office; 
and  it  had  not  dawned  upon  the  clouded  intellects  of  European 
statesmen  that  deliberate  national  perjury,  accompanied  by 


6 


SARACINESCA. 


public  meetings  of  sovereigns,  and  much  blare  of  many  trum¬ 
pets,  could  be  practised  with  such  triumphant  success  as  events 
have  since  shown.  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1865  people 
crossed  the  Alps  in  carriages;  the  Suez  Canal  had  not  been 
opened;  the  first  Atlantic  cable  was  not  laid;  German  unity 
had  not  been  invented;  Pius  IX.  reigned  in  the  Pontifical 
States;  Louis  Napoleon  was  the  idol  of  the  French;  President 
Lincoln  had  not  been  murdered, — is  anything  needed  to  widen 
the  gulf  which  separates  those  times  from  these  ?  The  differ¬ 
ence  between  the  States  of  the  world  in  1865  and  in  1885  is 
nearly  as  great  as  that  which  divided  the  Europe  of  1789  from 
the  Europe  of  1814. 

But  my  business  is  with  Rome,  and  not  with  Europe  at  large. 
I  intend  to  tell  the  story  of  certain  persons,  of  their  good  and 
bad  fortune,  their  adventures,  and  the  complications  in  which 
they  found  themselves  placed  during  a  period  of  about  twenty 
years.  The  people  of  whom  I  tell  this  story  are  chiefly  patri¬ 
cians  ;  and  in  the  first  part  of  their  history  they  have  very  little 
to  do  with  any  but  their  own  class — a  class  peculiar  and  almost 
unique  in  the  world. 

Speaking  broadly,  there  is  no  one  at  once  so  thoroughly 
Roman  and  so  thoroughly  non-Roman  as  the  Roman  noble. 
This  is  no  paradox,  no  play  on  words.  Roman  nobles  are 
Roman  by  education  and  tradition;  by  blood  they  are  almost 
cosmopolitans.  The  practice  of  intermarrying  with  the  great 
families  of  the  rest  of  Europe  is  so  general  as  to  be  almost  a 
rule.  One  Roman  prince  is  an  English  peer  ;  most  of  the 
Roman  princes  are  grandees  of  Spain  ;  many  of  them  have 
married  daughters  of  great  French  houses,  of  reigning  German 
princes,  of  ex-kings  and  ex-queens.  In  one  princely  house 
alone  are  found  the  following  combinations:  There  are  three 
brothers:  the  eldest  married  first  the  daughter  of  a  great  Eng¬ 
lish  peer,  and  secondly  the  daughter  of  an  even  greater  peer  of 
France;  the  second  brother  married  first  a  German  “  serene 
highness,”  and  secondly  the  daughter  of  a  great  Hungarian 
noble;  the  third  brother  married  the  daughter  of  a  French 
house  of  royal  Stuart  descent.  This  is  no  solitary  instance. 
A  score  of  families  might  be  cited  who,  by  constant  foreign 
marriages,  have  almost  eliminated  from  their  blood  the  original 
Italian  element;  and  this  great  intermixture  of  races  may  ac¬ 
count  for  the  strangely  un-Italian  types  that  are  found  among 
them,  for  the  undying  vitality  which  seems  to  animate  races 
already  a  thousand  years  old,  and  above  all,  for  a  very  remark¬ 
able  cosmopolitanism  which  pervades  Roman  society.  A  set  of 
people  whose  near  relations  are  socially  prominent  in  every 
capital  of  Europe,  could  hardly  be  expected  to  have  anything 


SARACINESCA. 


7 


provincial  about  them  in  appearance  or  manners ;  still  less  can 
they  be  considered  to  be  types  of  their  own  nation.  And  yet 
such  is  the  force  of  tradition,  of  the  patriarchal  family  life,  of 
the  early  surroundings  in  which  are  placed  these  children  of  a 
mixed  race,  that  they  acquire  from  their  earliest  years  the 
unmistakable  outward  manner  of  Romans,  the  broad  Roman 
speech,  and  a  sort  of  clannish  and  federative  spirit,  which  has 
not  its  like  in  the  same  class  anywhere  in  Europe.  They  grow 
up  together,  go  to  school  together,  go  together  into  the  world, 
and  together  discuss  all  the  social  affairs  of  their  native  city. 
Not  a  house  is  bought  or  sold,  not  a  hundred  francs  won  at 
ecarte,  not  a  marriage  contract  made,  without  being  duly  con¬ 
sidered  and  commented  upon  by  the  whole  of  society.  And 
yet,  though  there  is  much  gossip,  there  is  little  scandal;  there 
was  even  less  twenty  years  ago  than  there  is  now — not,  perhaps, 
because  the  increment  of  people  attracted  to  the  new  capital 
have  had  any  bad  influence,  but  simply  because  the  city  has 
grown  much  larger,  and  in  some  respects  has  outgrown  a  certain 
simplicity  of  manners  it  once  possessed,  and  which  was  its  chief 
safeguard.  For,  in  spite  of  a  vast  number  of  writers  of  all 
nations  who  have  attempted  to  describe  Italian  life,  and  who, 
from  an  imperfect  acquaintance  with  the  people,  have  fallen 
into  the  error  of  supposing  them  to  live  perpetually  in  a  highly 
complicated  state  of  mind,  the  foundation  of  the  Italian  char¬ 
acter  is  simple — far  more  so  than  that  of  his  hereditary  antago¬ 
nist,  the  northern  European.  It  is  enough  to  notice  that  the 
Italian  habitually  expresses  what  he  feels,  while  it  is  the  chief 
pride  of  Northern  men  that  whatever  they  may  feel  they  ex¬ 
press  nothing.  The  chief  object  of  most  Italians  is  to  make 
life  agreeable;  the  chief  object  of  the  Teutonic  races  is  to  make 
it  profitable.  Hence  the  Italian  excels  in  the  art  of  pleasing, 
and  in  pleasing  by  means  of  the  arts;  whereas  the  Northern 
man  is  pre-eminent  in  the  faculty  of  producing  wealth  under 
any  circumstances,  and  when  he  has  amassed  enough  posses¬ 
sions  to  think  of  enjoying  his  leisure,  has  generally  been  under 
the  necessity  of  employing  Southern  art  as  a  means  to  that  end. 
But  Southern  simplicity  carried  to  its  ultimate  expression  leads 
not  uncommonly  to  startling  results;  for  it  is  not  generally  a 
satisfaction  to  an  Italian  to  be  paid  a  sum  of  money  as  damages 
for  an  injury  done.  When  his  enemy  has  harmed  him,  he  de¬ 
sires  the  simple  retribution  afforded  by  putting  his  enemy  to 
death,  and  he  frequently  exacts  it  by  any  means  that  he  finds 
ready  to  his  hand.  Being  simple,  he  reflects  little,  and  often 
acts  with  violence.  The  Northern  mind,  capable  of  vast  intri¬ 
cacy  of  thought,  seeks  to  combine  revenge  of  injury  with  per¬ 
sonal  profit,  and  in  a  spirit  of  cold,  far-sighted  calculation, 


8 


SATIACIKESCA. 


reckons  up  the  advantages  to  he  got  by  sacrificing  an  innate 
desire  for  blood  to  a  civilised  greed  of  money. 

Dr.  Johnson  would  have  liked  the  Romans — for  in  general 
they  are  good  lovers  and  good  haters,  whatever  faults  they  may 
have.  The  patriarchal  system,  which  was  all  but  universal 
twenty  years  ago,  and  is  only  now  beginning  to  yield  to  more 
modern  institutions  of  life,  tends  to  foster  the  passions  of  love 
and  hate.  Where  father  and  mother  sit  at  the  head  and  foot 
of  the  table,  their  sons  with  their  wives  and  their  children  each 
in  his  or  her  place,  often  to  the  number  of  twenty  souls — all 
living  under  one  roof,  one  name,  and  one  bond  of  family  unity 
— there  is  likely  to  be  a  great  similarity  of  feeling  upon  all 
questions  of  family  pride,  especially  among  people  who  discuss 
everything  with  vehemence,  from  European  politics  to  the 
family  cook.  They  may  bicker  and  squabble  among  them¬ 
selves, — and  they  frequently  do, — but  in  their  outward  relations 
with  the  world  they  act  as  one  individual,  and  the  enemy  of  one 
is  the  enemy  of  all;  for  the  pride  of  race  and  name  is  very 
great.  There  is  a  family  in  Rome  who,  since  the  memory  of 
man,  have  not  failed  to  dine  together  twice  every  week,  and 
there  are  now  more  than  thirty  persons  who  take  their  places 
at  the  patriarchal  board.  No  excuse  can  be  pleaded  for  absence, 
and  no  one  would  think  of  violating  the  rule.  Whether  such 
a  mode  of  life  is  good  or  not  is  a  matter  of  opinion ;  it  is,  at  all 
events,  a  fact,  and  one  not  generally  understood  or  even  known 
by  persons  who  make  studies  of  Italian  character.  Free  and 
constant  discussion  of  all  manner  of  topics  should  certainly 
tend  to  widen  the  intelligence;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  where 
the  dialecticians  are  all  of  one  race,  and  name,  and  blood,  the 
practice  may  often  merely  lead  to  an  undue  development  of 
prejudice.  In  Rome,  particularly,  where  so  many  families  take 
a  distinct  character  from  the  influence  of  a  foreign  mother,  the 
opinions  of  a  house  are  associated  with  its  mere  name.  Casa 
Borghese  thinks  so  and  so,  Casa  Colonna  has  diametrically  op¬ 
posite  views,  while  Casa  Altieri  may  differ  wholly  from  both ; 
and  in  connection  with  most  subjects  the  mere  names  Borghese, 
Altieri,  Colonna  are  associated  in  the  minds  of  Romans  of  all 
classes  with  distinct  sets  of  principles  and  ideas,  with  distinct 
types  of  character,  and  with  distinctly  different  outward  and 
visible  signs  of  race.  Some  of  these  conditions  exist  among 
the  nobility  of  other  countries,  but  not,  I  believe,  to  the  same 
extent.  In  Germany,  the  aristocratic  body  takes  a  certain 
uniform  hue,  so  to  speak,  from  the  army,  in  which  it  plays  so 
important  a  part,  and  the  patriarchal  system  is  broken  up  by 
the  long  absences  from  the  ancestral  home  of  the  soldier-sons. 
In  France,  the  main  divisions  of  republicans,  monarchists,  and 


SARACItfESCA. 


9 


imperialists  have  absorbed  and  unified  the  ideas  and  principles 
of  large  bodies  of  families  into  bodies  politic.  In  England,  the 
practice  of  allowing  younger  sons  to  shift  for  themselves,  and 
the  division  of  the  whole  aristocracy  into  two  main  political 
parties,  destroy  the  patriarchal  spirit;  while  it  must  also  be 
remembered,  that  at  a  period  when  in  Italy  the  hand  of  every 
house  was  against  its  neighbour,  and  the  struggles  of  Guelph 
and  Ghibelline  were  but  an  excuse  for  the  prosecution  of  pri¬ 
vate  feuds,  England  was  engaged  in  great  wars  which  enlisted 
vast  bodies  of  men  under  a  common  standard  for  a  common 
principle.  Whether  the  principle  involved  chanced  to  be  that  of 
English  domination  in  France,  or  whether  men  flocked  to  the 
standards  of  the  White  Rose  of  York  or  the  Red  Rose  of  Lan¬ 
caster,  was  of  little  importance;  the  result  was  the  same, — the 
tendency  of  powerful  families  to  maintain  internecine  tradi¬ 
tional  feuds  was  stamped  out,  or  rather  was  absorbed  in  the  main¬ 
tenance  of  the  perpetual  feud  between  the  great  principles  of 
Tory  and  Whig — of  the  party  for  the  absolute  monarch,  and 
the  party  for  the  freedom  of  the  people. 

Be  the  causes  what  they  may,  the  Roman  nobility  has  many 
characteristics  peculiar  to  it  and  to  no  other  aristocracy.  It  is 
cosmopolitan  by  its  foreign  marriages,  renewed  in  every  gene¬ 
ration;  it  is  patriarchal  and  feudal  by  its  own  unbroken  tradi¬ 
tions  of  family  life;  and  it  is  only  essentially  Roman  by  its 
speech  and  social  customs.  It  has  undergone  great  vicissi¬ 
tudes  during  twenty  years;  but  most  of  these  features  remain 
in  spite  of  new  and  larger  parties,  new  and  bitter  political 
hatreds,  new  ideas  of  domestic  life,  and  new  fashions  in  dress 
and  cookery. 

In  considering  an  account  of  the  life  of  Giovanni  Saracinesca 
from  the  time  when,  in  1865,  he  was  thirty  years  of  age,  down 
to  the  present  day,  it  is  therefore  just  that  he  should  be  judged 
with  a  knowledge  of  some  of  these  peculiarities  of  his  class. 
He  is  not  a  Roman  of  the  people  like  Giovanni  Cardegna,  the 
great  tenor,  and  few  of  his  ideas  have  any  connection  with  those 
of  the  singer;  but  he  has,  in  common  with  him,  that  singular 
simplicity  of  character  which  he  derives  from  his  Roman  de¬ 
scent  upon  the  male  side,  and  in  which  will  be  found  the  key 
to  many  of  his  actions  both  good  and  bad — a  simplicity  which 
loves  peace,  but  cannot  always  refrain  from  sudden  violence, 
which  loves  and  hates  strongly  and  to  some  purpose. 


10 


SARACINESCA. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  hour  was  six  o’clock,  and  the  rooms  of  the  Embassy 
were  as  full  as  they  were  likely  to  be  that  day.  There  would 
doubtless  have  been  more  people  had  the  weather  been  fine; 
but  it  was  raining  heavily,  and  below,  in  the  vast  court  that 
formed  the  centre  of  the  palace,  the  lamps  of  fifty  carriages 
gleamed  through  the  water  and  the  darkness,  and  the  coach¬ 
men,  of  all  dimensions  and  characters,  sat  beneath  their  huge 
umbrellas  and  growled  to  each  other,  envying  the  lot  of  the 
footmen  who  were  congregated  in  the  ante-chamber  up-stairs 
around  the  great  bronze  braziers.  But  in  the  reception-rooms 
there  was  much  light  and  warmth;  there  were  bright  fires  and 
softly  shaded  lamps;  velvet-footed  servants  stealing  softly 
among  the  guests,  with  immense  burdens  of  tea  and  cake;  men 
of  more  or  less  celebrity  chatting  about  politics  in  corners; 
women  of  more  or  less  beauty  gossiping  over  their  tea,  or  flirt¬ 
ing,  or  wishing  they  had  somebody  to  flirt  with;  people  of 
many  nations  and  ideas,  with  a  goodly  leaven  of  Romans.  They 
all  seemed  endeavouring  to  get  away  from  the  men  and  women 
of  their  own  nationality,  in  order  to  amuse  themselves  with 
the  difficulties  of  conversation  in  languages  not  their  own. 
Whether  they  amused  themselves  or  not  is  of  small  importance; 
but  as  they  were  all  willing  to  find  themselves  together  twice 
a-day  for  the  five  months  of  the  Roman  season — from  the  first 
improvised  dance  before  Christmas,  to  the  last  set  ball  in  the 
warm  April  weather  after  Easter — it  may  be  argued  that  they 
did  not  dislike  each  other’s  society.  In  case  the  afternoon 
should  seem  dull,  his  Excellency  had  engaged  the  services  of 
Signor  Strillone,  the  singer.  From  time  to  time  he  struck  a 
few  chords  upon  the  grand  piano,  and  gave  forth  a  song  of  his 
own  composition  in  loud  and  passionate  tones,  varied  with  very 
sudden  effects  of  extreme  pianissimo,  which  occasionally  sur¬ 
prised  some  one  who  was  trying  to  make  his  conversation  heard 
above  the  music. 

There  was  a  little  knot  of  people  standing  about  the  door  of 
the  great  drawing-room.  Some  of  them  were  watching  their 
opportunity  to  slip  away  unperceived;  others  had  just  arrived, 
and  were  making  a  survey  of  the  scene  to  ascertain  the  exact 
position  of  their  Excellencies,  and  of  the  persons  they  most 
desired  to  avoid,  before  coming  forward.  Suddenly,  just  as 
Signor  Strillone  had  reached  a  high  note  and  was  preparing  to 
bellow  upon  it  before  letting  his  voice  die  away  to  a  pathetic 
falsetto,  the  crowd  at  the  door  parted  a  little.  A  lady  entered 


SARACIHESCA. 


11 


the  room  alone,  and  stood  out  before  the  rest,  pausing  till  the 
singer  should  have  passed  the  climax  of  his  song,  before  she 
proceeded  upon  her  way.  She  was  a  very  striking  woman ;  every 
one  knew  who  she  was,  every  one  looked  towards  her,  and  the 
little  murmur  that  went  round  the  room  was  due  to  her  en¬ 
trance  rather  than  to  Signor  Strillone's  high  note. 

The  Duchessa  d’Astrardente  stood  still,  and  quietly  looked 
about  her.  A  minister,  two  secretaries,  and  three  or  four 
princes  sprang  towards  her,  each  with  a  chair  in  hand;  but  she 
declined  each  offer,  nodding  to  one,  thanking  another  by  name, 
and  exchanging  a  few  words  with  a  third.  She  would  not  sit 
down ;  she  had  not  yet  spoken  to  the  einbassadress. 

Two  men  followed  her  closely  as  she  crossed  the  room  when 
the  song  was  finished.  One  was  a  fair  man  of  five-and-thirty, 
rather  stout,  and  elaborately  dressed.  He  trod  softly  and  car¬ 
ried  his  hat  behind  him,  while  he  leaned  a  little  forward  in  his 
walk.  There  was  something  unpleasant  about  his  face,  caused 
perhaps  by  his  pale  complexion  and  almost  colourless  moustache; 
his  blue  eyes  were  small  and  near  together,  and  had  a  watery, 
undecided  look;  his  thin  fair  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle 
over  his  low  forehead;  there  was  a  scornful  look  about  his 
mouth,  though  half  concealed  by  the  moustache;  and  his  chin 
retreated  rather  abruptly  from  his  lower  lip.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  was  dressed  with  extreme  care,  and  his  manner  showed 
no  small  confidence  in  himself  as  he  pushed  forwards,  keeping 
as  close  as  he  could  to  the  Duchessa.  He  had  the  air  of  being 
thoroughly  at  home  in  his  surroundings. 

Ugo  del  Ferice  was  indeed  rarely  disconcerted,  and  his  self- 
reliance  was  most  probably  one  chief  cause  of  his  success.  He 
was  a  man  who  performed  the  daily  miracle  of  creating  every¬ 
thing  for  himself  out  of  nothing.  His  father  had  barely  been 
considered  a  member  of  the  lower  nobility,  although  he  always 
called  himself  “  dei  conti  del  Ferice  ” — of  the  family  of  the 
counts  of  his  name;  but  where  or  when  the  Conti  del  Ferice 
had  lived,  was  a  question  he  never  was  able  to  answer  satisfac¬ 
torily.  He  had  made  a  little  money,  and  had  squandered  most 
of  it  before  he  died,  leaving  the  small  remainder  to  his  only 
son,  who  had  spent  every  scudo  of  it  in  the  first  year.  But  to 
make  up  for  the  exiguity  of  his  financial  resources,  IJgo  had 
from  his  youth  obtained  social  success.  He  had  begun  life  by 
boldly  calling  himself  “  II  conte  del  Ferice.”  No  one  had  ever 
thought  it  worth  while  to  dispute  him  the  title;  and  as  he  had 
hitherto  not  succeeded  in  conferring  it  upon  any  dowered 
damsel,  the  question  of  his  countship  was  left  unchallenged. 
He  had  made  many  acquaintances  in  the  college  where  he  had 
been  educated;  for  his  father  had  paid  for  his  schooling  in  the 


12 


SARACIHESCA. 


Collegio  dei  Nobili,  and  that  in  itself  was  a  passport — for  as 
the  lad  grew  to  the  young  man,  he  zealously  cultivated  the 
society  of  his  old  school-fellows,  and  hy  wisely  avoiding  all 
other  company,  acquired  a  right  to  he  considered  one  of  them¬ 
selves.  He  was  very  civil  and  obliging  in  his  youth,  and  had 
in  that  way  acquired  a  certain  reputation  for  being  indispen¬ 
sable,  which  had  stood  him  in  good  stead.  Ho  one  asked 
whether  he  had  paid  his  tailor’s  hill;  or  whether  upon  certain 
conditions,  his  tailor  supplied  him  with  raiment  gratis.  He 
was  always  elaborately  dressed,  he  was  always  ready  to  take  a 
hand  at  cards,  and  he  was  always  invited  to  every  party  in  the 
season.  He  had  cultivated  with  success  the  science  of  amusing, 
and  people  asked  him  to  dinner  in  the  winter,  and  to  their 
country  houses  in  the  summer.  He  had  been  seen  in  Paris, 
and  was  often  seen  at  Monte  Carlo;  but  his  real  home  and 
hunting-ground  was  Rome,  where  he  knew  every  one  and  every 
one  knew  him.  He  had  made  one  or  two  fruitless  attempts  to 
marry  young  women  of  American  extraction  and  large  fortune ; 
he  had  not  succeeded  in  satisfying  the  paternal  mind  in  regard 
to  guarantees,  and  had  consequently  been  worsted  in  his  en¬ 
deavours.  Last  summer,  however,  it  appeared  that  he  had 
been  favoured  with  an  increase  of  fortune.  He  gave  out  that 
an  old  uncle  of  his,  who  had  settled  in  the  south  of  Italy,  had 
died,  leaving  him  a  modest  competence;  and  while  assuming 
a  narrow  band  of  crepe  upon  his  hat,  he  had  adopted  also  a 
somewhat  more  luxurious  mode  of  living.  Instead  of  going 
about  on  foot  or  in  cabs,  he  kept  a  very  small  coupe,  with  a 
very  small  horse  and  a  diminutive  coachman:  the  whole  turn¬ 
out  was  very  quiet  in  appearance,  but  very  serviceable  withal. 
Ugo  sometimes  wore  too  much  jewellery;  but  his  bad  taste,  if 
so  it  could  be  called,  did  not  extend  to  the  modest  equipage. 
People  accepted  the  story  of  the  deceased  uncle,  and  congratu¬ 
lated  Ugo,  whose  pale  face  assumed  on  such  occasions  a  some¬ 
what  deprecating  smile.  “  A  few  scudi,”  he  would  answer — 
“  a  very  small  competence ;  but  what  would  you  have  ?  I  need 
so  little — it  -is  enough  for  me.”  nevertheless  people  who  knew 
him  well  warned  him  that  he  was  growing  stout. 

The  other  man  who  followed  the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente 
across  the  drawing-room  was  of  a  different  type.  Don  Gio¬ 
vanni  Saracinesca  was  neither  very  tall  nor  remarkably  hand¬ 
some,  though  in  the  matter  of  his  beauty  opinion  varied  greatly. 
He  was  very  dark — almost  as  dark  for  a  man  as  the  Duchessa 
was  for  a  woman.  He  was  strongly  built,  but  very  lean,  and 
his  features  stood  out  in  bold  and  sharp  relief  from  the  setting 
of  his  short  black  hair  and  pointed  beard.  His  nose  was  per¬ 
haps  a  little  large  for  his  face,  and  the  unusual  brilliancy  of 


SARACltfESCA. 


13 


his  eyes  gave  him  an  expression  of  restless  energy;  there  was 
something  noble  in  the  shaping  of  his  high  square  forehead 
and  in  the  turn  of  his  sinewy  throat.  His  hands  were  broad 
and  brown,  but  nervous  and  well  knit,  with  straight  long 
fingers  and  squarely  cut  nails.  Many  women  said  Don  Gio¬ 
vanni  was  the  handsomest  man  in  Rome;  others  said  he  was 
too  dark  or  too  thin,  and  that  hi-s  face  was  hard  and  his  features 
ugly.  There  was  a  great  difference  of  opinion  in  regard  to  his 
appearance.  Don  Giovanni  was  not  married,  but  there  were 
few  marriageable  women  in  Rome  who  would  not  have  been 
overjoyed  to  become  his  wife.  But  hitherto  he  had  hesitated 
— or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  he  had  not  hesitated  at  all  in 
his  celibacy.  His  conduct  in  refusing  to  marry  had  elicited 
much  criticism,  little  of  which  had  reached  his  ears.  He  cared 
not  much  for  what  his  friends  said  to  him,  and  not  at  all  for 
the  opinion  of  the  world  at  large,  in  consequence  of  which  state 
of  mind  people  often  said  he  was  selfish — a  view  taken  exten¬ 
sively  by  elderly  princesses  with  unmarried  daughters,  and 
even  by  Don  Giovanni’s  father  and  only  near  relation,  the  old 
Prince  Saracinesca,  who  earnestly  desired  to  see  his  name  per¬ 
petuated.  Indeed  Giovanni  would  have  made  a  good  husband, 
for  he  was  honest  and  constant  by  nature,  courteous  by  dispo¬ 
sition,  and  considerate  by  habit  and  experience.  His  reputa¬ 
tion  for  wildness  rested  rather  upon  his  taste  for  dangerous 
amusements  than  upon  such  scandalous  adventures  as  made  up 
the  lives  of  many  of  his  contemporaries.  But  to  all  matri¬ 
monial  proposals  he  answered  that  he  was  barely  thirty  years 
of  age,  that  he  had  plenty  of  time  before  him,  that  he  had  not 
yet  seen  the  woman  whom  he  would  be  willing  to  marry,  and 
that  he  intended  to  please  himself. 

The  Duchessa  d’Astrardente  made  her  speech  to  her  hostess 
and  passed  on,  still  followed  by  the  two  men;  but  they  now 
approached  her,  one  on  each  side,  and  endeavoured  to  engage 
her  attention.  Apparently  she  intended  to  be  impartial,  for 
she  sat  down  in  the  middle  one  of  three  chairs,  and  motioned 
to  her  two  companions  to  seat  themselves  also,  which  they  im¬ 
mediately  did,  whereby  they  became  for  the  moment  the  two 
most  important  men  in  the  room. 

Corona  d’Astrardente  was  a  very  dark  woman.  In  all  the 
Southern  land  there  were  no  eyes  so  black  as  hers,  no  cheeks 
of  such  a  warm  dark- olive  tint,  no  tresses  of  such  raven  hue. 
But  if  she  was  not  fair,  she  was  very  beautiful;  there  was  a 
delicacy  in  her  regular  features  that  artists  said  was  matchless; 
her  mouth,  not  small,  but  generous  and  nobly  cut,  showed  per¬ 
haps  more  strength,  more  even  determination,  than  most  men 
like  to  see  in  women’s  faces;  but  in  the  exquisitely  moulded 


14 


SARACINESCA. 


nostrils  there  lurked  much  sensitiveness  and  the  expression  of 
much  courage;  and  the  level  brow  and  straight-cut  nose  were 
in  their  clearness  as  an  earnest  of  the  noble  thoughts  that  were 
within,  and  that  so  often  spoke  from  the  depths  of  her  splendid 
eyes.  She  was  not  a  scornful  beauty,  though  her  face  could 
express  scorn  well  enough.  Where  another  woman  would  have 
shown  disdain,  she  needed  but  to  look  grave,  and  her  silence 
did  the  rest.  She  wielded  magnificent  weapons,  and  wielded 
them  nobly,  as  she  did  all  things.  She  needed  all  her  strength, 
too,  for  her  position  from  the  first  was  not  easy.  She  had  few 
troubles,  but  they  were  great  ones,  and  she  bore  them  bravely. 

One  may  well  ask  why  Corona  del  Carmine  had  married  the 
old  man  who  was  her  husband — the  broken-down  and  worn-out 
dandy  of  sixty,  whose  career  was  so  well  known,  and  whose 
doings  had  been  as  scandalous  as  his  ancient  name  was  famous 
in  the  history  of  his  country.  Her  marriage  was  in  itself 
almost  a  tragedy.  It  matters  little  to  know  how  it  came  about; 
she  accepted  Astrardente  with  his  dukedom,  his  great  wealth, 
and  his  evil  past,  on  the  day  when  she  left  the  convent  where 
she  had  been  educated;  she  did  it  to  save  her  father  from  ruin, 
almost  from  starvation;  she  was  seventeen  years  of  age;  she 
was  told  that  the  world  was  bad,  and  she  resolved  to  begin  her 
life  by  a  heroic  sacrifice;  she  took  the  step  heroically,  and  no 
human  being  had  ever  heard  her  complain.  Five  years  had 
elapsed  since  then,  and  her  father — for  whom  she  had  given 
all  she  had,  herself,  her  beauty,  her  brave  heart,  and  her  hopes 
of  happiness — her  old  father,  whom  she  so  loved,  was  dead,  the 
last  of  his  race,  saving  only  this  beautiful  but  childless  daugh¬ 
ter.  What  she  suffered  now — whether  she  suffered  at  all — no 
man  knew.  There  had  been  a  wild  burst  of  enthusiasm  when 
she  appeared  first  in  society,  a  universal  cry  that  it  was  a  sin 
and  a  shame.  But  the  cynics  who  had  said  she  would  console 
herself  had  been  obliged  to  own  their  worldly  wisdom  at  fault ; 
the  men  of  all  sorts  who  had  lost  their  hearts  to  her  were 
ignominiously  driven  in  course  of  time  to  find  them  again  else¬ 
where.  Amid  all  the  excitement  of  the  first  two  years  of  her 
life  in  the  world,  Corona  had  moved  calmly  upon  her  way, 
wrapped  in  the  perfect  dignity  of  her  character;  and  the  old 
Duca  d" Astrardente  had  smiled  and  played  with  the  curled 
locks  of  his  wonderful  wig,  and  had  told  every  one  that  his 
wife  was  the  one  woman  in  the  universe  who  was  above  sus¬ 
picion.  People  had  laughed  incredulously  at  first;  but  as  time 
wore  on  they  held  their  peace,  tacitly  acknowledging  that  the 
aged  fop  was  right  as  usual,  but  swearing  in  their  hearts  that 
it  was  the  shame  of  shames  to  see  the  noblest  woman  in  their 
midst  tied  to  such  a  wretched  remnant  of  dissipated  humanity 


SARACINESCA. 


15 


as  the  Duca  chAstrardente.  Corona  went  everywhere,  like 
other  people;  she  received  in  her  own  house  a  vast  number  of 
acquaintances;  there  were  a  few  friends  who  came  and  went 
much  as  they  pleased,  and  some  of  them  were  young;  but  there 
was  never  a  breath  of  scandal  breathed  about  the  Duchessa. 
She  was  indeed  above  suspicion. 

She  sat  now  between  two  men  who  were  evidently  anxious  to 
please  her.  The  position  was  not  new;  she  was,  as  usual,  to 
talk  to  both,  and  yet  to  show  no  preference  for  either.  And 
yet  she  had  a  preference,  and  in  her  heart  she  knew  it  was  a 
strong  one.  It  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  her  which  of 
those  two  men  left  her  side  and  which  remained.  She  was 
above  suspicion — yes,  above  the  suspicion  of  any  human  being 
besides  herself,  as  she  had  been  for  five  long  years.  She  knew 
that  had  her  husband  entered  the  room  and  passed  that  way, 
he  would  have  nodded  to  Giovanni  Saracinesca  as  carelessly  as 
though  Giovanni  had  been  his  wife^s  brother — as  carelessly  as 
he  would  have  noticed  Ugo  del  Ferice  upon  her  other  side. 
But  in  her  own  heart  she  knew  that  there  was  but  one  face  in 
all  Rome  she  loved  to  see,  but  one  voice  she  loved,  and  dreaded 
too,  for  it  had  the  power  to  make  her  life  seem  unreal,  till  she 
wondered  how  long  it  would  last,  and  whether  there  would  ever 
be  any  change.  The  difference  between  Giovanni  and  other 
men  had  always  been  apparent.  Others  would  sit  beside  her 
and  make  conversation,  and  then  occasionally  would  make 
speeches  she  did  not  care  to  hear,  would  talk  to  her  of  love — 
some  praising  it  as  the  only  thing  worth  living  for,  some  with 
affected  cynicism  scoffing  at  it  as  the  greatest  of  unrealities, 
contradicting  themselves  a  moment  later  in  some  passionate 
declaration  to  herself.  When  they  were  foolish,  she  laughed  at 
them ;  when  they  went  too  far,  she  quietly  rose  and  left  them. 
Such  experiences  had  grown  rare  of  late,  for  she  had  earned 
the  reputation  of  being  cold  and  unmoved,  and  that  protected 
her.  But  Giovanni  had  never  talked  like  the  rest  of  them. 
He  never  mentioned  the  old,  worn  subjects  that  the  others 
harped  upon.  She  would  not  have  found  it  easy  to  say  what  he 
talked  about,  for  he  talked  indifferently  about  many  subjects. 
She  was  not  sure  whether  he  spent  more  time  with  her  when 
in  society  than  with  other  women;  she  reflected  that  he  was 
not  so  brilliant  as  many  men  she  knew,  not  so  talkative  as  the 
majority  of  men  she  met;  she  knew  only — and  it  was  the  thing 
she  most  bitterly  reproached  herself  with — that  she  preferred 
his  face  above  all  other  faces,  and  his  voice  beyond  all  voices. 
It  never  entered  her  head  to  think  that  she  loved  him;  it  was 
bad  enough  in  her  simple  creed  that  there  should  be  any  man 
whom  she  would  rather  see  than  not,  and  whom  she  missed 


16 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


when  he  did  not  approach  her.  She  was  a  very  strong  and 
loyal  woman,  who  had  sacrificed  herself  to  a  man  who  knew 
the  world  very  thoroughly,  who  in  the  thoroughness  of  his 
knowledge  was  able  to  see  that  the  world  is  not  all  bad,  and 
who,  in  spite  of  all  his  evil  deeds,  was  proud  of  his  wife’s 
loyalty.  Astrardente  had  made  a  bargain  when  he  married 
Corona;  but  he  was  a  wise  man  in  his  generation,  and  he  knew 
and  valued  her  when  he  had  got  her.  He  knew  the  precise 
dangers  to  which  she  was  exposed,  and  he  was  not  so  cruel  as 
to  expose  her  to  them  willingly.  He  had  at  first  watched 
keenly  the  effect  produced  upon  her  by  conversing  with  men 
of  all  sorts  in  the  world,  and  among  others  he  had  noticed 
Giovanni;  but  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  his  wife  was 
equal  to  any  situation  in  which  she  might  be  placed.  More¬ 
over,  Giovanni  was  not  an  habitue  at  the  Palazzo  Astrardente, 
and  showed  none  of  the  usual  signs  of  anxiety  to  please  the 
Duchessa. 

From  the  time  when  Corona  began  to  notice  her  own  pre¬ 
dilection  for  Saracinesca,  she  had  been  angry  with  herself  for 
it,  and  she  tried  to  avoid  him;  at  all  events,  she  gave  him 
no  idea  that  she  liked  him  especially.  Her  husband,  who  at 
first  had  delivered  many  lectures  on  the  subject  of  behaviour 
in  the  world,  had  especially  warned  her  against  showing  any 
marked  coldness  to  a  man  she  wished  to  shun.  “  Men,”  said 
he,  “  are  accustomed  to  that;  they  regard  it  as  the  first  indica¬ 
tion  that  a  woman  is  really  interested ;  when  you  want  to  get 
rid  of  a  man,  treat  him  systematically  as  you  treat  everybody, 
and  he  will  be  wounded  at  your  indifference  and  go  away.” 
But  Giovanni  did  not  go,  and  Corona  began  to  wonder  whether 
she  ought  not  to  do  something  to  break  the  interest  she  felt  in 
him. 

At  the  present  moment  she  wanted  a  cup  of  tea.  She  would 
have  liked  to  send  Ugo  del  Ferice  for  it;  she  did  what  she 
thought  least  pleasant  to  herself,  and  she  sent  Giovanni.  The 
servants  who  were  serving  the  refreshments  had  all  left  the 
room,  and  Saracinesca  went  in  pursuit  of  them.  As  soon  as 
he  was  gone  Del  Ferice  spoke.  His  voice  was  soft,  and  had  an 
insinuating  tone  in  it. 

“  They  are  saying  that  Don  Giovanni  is  to  be  married,”  he 
remarked,  watching  the  Duchessa  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
as  he  indifferently  delivered  himself  of  his  news. 

The  Duchessa  was  too  dark  a  woman  to  show  emotion  easily. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  believe  the  story;  her  eyes  fixed  them¬ 
selves  on  some  distant  object  in  the  room,  as  though  she  were 
intensely  interested  in  something  she  saw,  and  she  paused  be¬ 
fore  she  answered. 


SAKACINESCA. 


17 


“  That  is  news  indeed,  if  it  is  true.  And  whom  is  he  going 
to  marry  ?  ” 

“  Donna  Tullia  Mayer,  the  widow  of  the  financier.  She  is 
immensely  rich,  and  is  some  kind  of  cousin  of  the  Saracinesca.” 

“  How  strange !  ”  exclaimed  Corona.  “  I  was  just  looking 
at  her.  Is  not  that  she  over  there,  with  the  green  feathers  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  answered  Del  Ferice,  looking  in  the  direction  the 
Duchessa  indicated.  “  That  is  she.  One  may  know  her  at  a 
vast  distance  by  her  dress.  But  it  is  not  all  settled  yet.” 

“  Then  one  cannot  congratulate  Don  Giovanni  to-day  ?  ” 
asked  the  Duchessa,  facing  her  interlocutor  rather  suddenly. 

“  Ho,”  he  answered;  “it  is  perhaps  better  not  to  speak  to 
him  about  it.” 

“  It  is  well  that  you  warned  me,  for  I  would  certainly  have 
spoken.” 

“I  do  not  imagine  that  Saracinesca  likes  to  talk  of  his 
affairs  of  the  heart,”  said  Del  Ferice,  with  considerable  gravity. 
“  But  here  he  comes.  I  had  hoped  he  would  have  taken  even 
longer  to  get  that  cup  of  tea.” 

“  It  was  long  enough  for  you  to  tell  your  news,”  answered 
Corona  quietly,  as  Don  Giovanni  came  up. 

“  What  is  the  news  ?  ”  asked  he,  as  he  sat  down  beside  her. 

“  Only  an  engagement  that  is  not  yet  announced,”  answered 
the  Duchessa.  “Del  Ferice  has  the  secret;  perhaps  he  will 
tell  you.” 

Giovanni  glanced  across  her  at  the  fair  pale  man,  whose  fat 
face,  however,  expressed  nothing.  Seeing  he  was  not  enlight¬ 
ened,  Saracinesca  civilly  turned  the  subject. 

“  Are  you  going  to  the  meet  to-morrow,  Duchessa  ?  ”  he 
asked. 

“  That  depends  upon  the  weather  and  upon  the  Duke,”  she 
answered.  “  Are  you  going  to  follow  ?  ” 

“  Of  course.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  you  do  not  ride !  ” 

“  It  seems  such  an  unnatural  thing  to  see  a  woman  hunting,” 
remarked  Del  Ferice,  who  remembered  to  have  heard  the 
Duchessa  say  something  of  the  kind,  and  was  consequently  sure 
that  she  would  agree  with  him. 

“  You  do  not  ride  yourself,”  said  Don  Giovanni,  shortly. 
“  That  is  the  reason  you  do  not  approve  of  it  for  ladies.” 

“I  am  not  rich  enough  to  hunt,”  said  Ugo,  modestly.  “Be¬ 
sides,  the  other  reason  is  a  good  one;  for  when  ladies  hunt  I 
am  deprived  of  their  society.” 

The  Duchessa  laughed  slightly.  She  never  felt  less  like 
laughing  in  her  life,  and  yet  it  was  necessary  to  encourage  the 
conversation.  Giovanni  did  not  abandon  the  subject. 

“  It  will  be  a  beautiful  meet,”  he  said,  “  Many  people  are 


18 


SARACINESCA. 


going  out  for  the  first  time  this  year.  There  is  a  man  here 
who  has  brought  his  horses  from  England.  I  forget  his  name 
— a  rich  Englishman.” 

“  I  have  met  him,”  said  Del  Eerice,  who  was  proud  of  know¬ 
ing  everybody.  “  He  is  a  type — enormously  rich — a  lord — I 
cannot  pronounce  his  name— not  married  either.  He  will 
make  a  sensation  in  society.  He  won  races  in  Paris  last  year, 
and  they  say  he  will  enter  one  of  his  hunters  for  the  steeple¬ 
chases  here  at  Easter.” 

“  That  is  a  great  inducement  to  go  to  the  meet,  to  see  this 
Englishman,”  said  the  Dnchessa  rather  wearily,  as  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair.  Giovanni  was  silent,  but  showed  no  inten¬ 
tion  of  going.  Del  Ferice,  with  an  equal  determination  to 
stay,  chattered  vivaciously. 

“  Don  Giovanni  is  quite  right,”  he  continued.  “  Every  one 
is  going.  There  will  be  two  or  three  drags.  Madame  Mayer 
has  induced  Valdarno  to  have  out  his  four-in-hand,  and  to 
take  her  and  a  large  party.” 

The  Duchessa  did  not  hear  the  remainder  of  Del  Ferice’s 
speech,  for  at  the  mention  of  Donna  Tullia — now  commonly 
called  Madame  Mayer — she  instinctively  turned  and  looked  at 
Giovanni.  He,  too,  had  caught  the  name,  though  he  was  not 
listening  in  the  least  to  Ugo’s  chatter;  and  as  he  met  Corona’s 
eyes  he  moved  uneasily,  as  much  as  to  say  he  wished  the  fellow 
would  stop  talking.  A  moment  later  Del  Ferice  rose  from  his 
seat;  he  had  seen  Donna  Tullia  passing  near,  and  thought  the 
opportunity  favourable  for  obtaining  an  invitation  to  join  the 
party  on  the  drag.  With  a  murmured  excuse  which  Corona 
did  not  hear,  he  went  in  pursuit  of  his  game. 

“  I  thought  he  was  never  going,”  said  Giovanni,  moodily. 
He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  posing  as  the  rival  of  any  one  who 
happened  to  be  talking  to  the  Duchessa.  He  had  never  said 
anything  of  the  kind  before,  and  Corona  experienced  a  new 
sensation,  not  altogether  unpleasant.  She  looked  at  him  in 
some  surprise. 

“  Do  you  not  like  Del  Ferice  ?  ”  she  inquired,  gravely. 

“  Do  you  like  him  yourself  ?  ”  he  asked  in  reply. 

“  What  a  question!  Why  should  I  like  or  dislike  any  one?” 
There  was  perhaps  the  smallest  shade  of  bitterness  in  her  voice 
as  she  asked  the  question  she  had  so  often  asked  herself. 
Why  should  she  like  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  for  instance  ? 

“  I  do  not  know  what  the  world  would  be  like  if  we  had  no 
likes  and  dislikes,”  said  Giovanni,  suddenly.  “  It  would  be  a 
poor  place;  perhaps  it  is  only  a  poor  place  at  best.  I  merely 
wondered  whether  Del  Ferice  amused  you  as  he  amuses  every¬ 
body.” 


SARACINESCA. 


19 


“  Well  then,  frankly,  lie  has  not  amused  me  to-day,”  answered 
Corona,  with  a  smile. 

“  Then  you  are  glad  he  is  gone  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  regret  it.” 

“  Duchessa,”  said  Giovanni,  suddenly  changing  his  position, 
“  I  am  glad  he  is  gone,  because  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question. 
Do  I  know  you  well  enough  to  ask  you  a  question  ?  ” 

“  It  depends - ”  Corona  felt  the  blood  rise  suddenly  to 

her  dark  forehead.  Her  hands  burned  intensely  in  her  gloves. 
The  anticipation  of  something  she  had  never  heard  made  her 
heart  beat  uncontrollably  in  her  breast. 

“  It  is  only  about  myself,”  continued  Giovanni,  in  low  tones. 
He  had  seen  the  blush,  so  rare  a  sight  that  there  was  not 
another  man  in  Rome  who  had  seen  it.  He  had  not  time  to 
think  what  it  meant.  “  It  is  only  about  myself,”  he  went  on. 
“  My  father  wants  me  to  marry;  he  insists  that  I  should  marry 
Donna  Tullia — Madame  Mayer.” 

“Well?”  asked  Corona.  She  shivered;  a  moment  before, 
she  had  been  oppressed  with  the  heat.  Her  monosyllabic 
question  was  low  and  indistinct.  She  wondered  whether 
Giovanni  could  hear  the  beatings  of  her  heart,  so  slow,  so 
loud  they  almost  deafened  her. 

“  Simply  this.  Do  you  advise  me  to  marry  her  ?  ” 

“  Why  do  you  ask  me,  of  all  people  ?  ”  asked  Corona, 
faintly. 

“  I  would  like  to  have  your  advice,”  said  Giovanni,  twisting 
his  brown  hands  together  and  fixing  his  bright  eyes  upon  her 
face. 

“  She  is  young  yet.  She  is  handsome — she  is  fabulously 
rich.  Why  should  you  not  marry  her  ?  Would  she  make  you 
happy  ?  ” 

“  Happy  ?  Happy  with  her  ?  Ho  indeed.  Do  you  think 
life  would  be  bearable  with  such  a  woman  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  know.  Many  men  would  marry  her  if  they 
could - ” 

“  Then  you  think  I  should  ?  ”  asked  Giovanni.  Corona 
hesitated;  she  could  not  understand  why  she  should  care, 
and  yet  she  was  conscious  that  there  had  been  no  such 
struggle  in  her  life  since  the  day  she  had  blindly  resolved 
to  sacrifice  herself  to  her  father’s  wishes  in  accepting  Astrar- 
dente.  Still  there  could  be  no  doubt  what  she  should  say: 
how  could  she  advise  any  one  to  marry  without  the  prospect  of 
the  happiness  she  had  never  had  ? 

“  Will  you  not  give  me  your  counsel  ?  ”  repeated  Saracinesca. 
He  had  grown  very  pale,  and  spoke  with  such  earnestness  that 
Corona  hesitated  no  longer. 


20 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


“  I  would  certainly  advise  you  to  think  no  more  about  it,  if 
you  are  sure  that  you  cannot  be  happy  with  her.” 

Giovanni  drew  a  long  breath,  the  blood  returned  to  his  face, 
and  his  hands  unlocked  themselves. 

“  I  will  think  no  more  about  it,”  he  said.  “  Heaven  bless 
you  for  your  advice,  Duchessa!” 

“  Heaven  grant  I  have  advised  you  well !  ”  said  Corona, 
almost  inaudibly.  “How  cold  this  house  is!  Will  you  put 
down  my  cup  of  tea  ?  Let  us  go  near  the  fire ;  Strillone  is 
going  to  sing  again.” 

“  I  would  like  him  to  sing  a  ‘  Nunc  dimittis,  Domine,’  for 
me,”  murmured  Giovanni,  whose  eyes  were  filled  with  a  strange 
light. 

Half  an  hour  later  Corona  d’Astrardente  went  down  the 
steps  of  the  Embassy  wrapped  in  her  furs  and  preceded  by  her 
footman.  As  she  reached  the  bottom  Giovanni  Saracinesca 
came  swiftly  down  and  joined  her  as  her  carriage  drove  up  out 
of  the  dark  courtyard.  The  footman  opened  the  door,  but 
Giovanni  put  out  his  hand  to  help  Corona  to  mount  the  step. 
She  laid  her  small  gloved  fingers  upon  the  sleeve  of  his 
overcoat,  and  as  she  sprang  lightly  in  she  thought  his  arm 
trembled. 

“  Good  night,  Duchessa;  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,”  he 
said. 

“Good  night;  why  should  you  be  grateful?”  she  asked, 
almost  sadly. 

Giovanni  did  not  answer,  but  stood  hat  in  hand  as  the  great 
carriage  rolled  out  under  the  arch.  Then  he  buttoned  his 
greatcoat,  and  went  out  alone  into  the  dark  and  muddy  streets. 
The  rain  had  ceased,  but  everything  was  wet,  and  the  broad 
pavements  gleamed  under  the  uncertain  light  of  the  flickering 
gas-lamps. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  palace  of  the  Saracinesca  is  in  an  ancient  quarter  of 
Rome,  far  removed  from  the  broad  white  streets  of  mushroom 
dwelling-houses  and  machine-laid  macadam;  far  from  the 
foreigners’  region,  the  varnish  of  the  fashionable  shops,  the 
whirl  of  brilliant  equipages,  and  the  scream  of  the  newsvendor. 
The  vast  irregular  buildings  are  built  around  three  courtyards, 
and  face  on  all  sides  upon  narrow  streets.  The  first  sixteen 
feet,  up  to  the  heavily  ironed  windows  of  the  lower  storey, 
consist  of  great  blocks  of  stone,  worn  at  the  corners  and  scored 
along  their  length  by  the  battering  of  ages,  by  the  heavy  carts 


SARACINESCA. 


21 


that  from  time  immemorial  have  found  the  way  too  narrow  and 
have  ground  their  iron  axles  against  the  massive  masonry.  Of 
the  three  enormous  arched  gates  that  give  access  to  the  interior 
from  different  sides,  one  is  closed  by  an  iron  grating,  another 
by  huge  doors  studded  with  iron  bolts,  and  the  third  alone  is 
usually  open  as  an  entrance.  A  tall  old  porter  used  to  stand 
there  in  a  long  livery-coat  and  a  cocked-hat;  on  holidays  he 
appeared  in  the  traditional  garb  of  the  Parisian  “  Suisse,” 
magnificent  in  silk  stockings  and  a  heavily  laced  coat  of  dark 
green,  leaning  upon  his  tall  mace — a  constant  object  of  wonder 
to  the  small  boys  of  the  quarter.  He  trimmed  his  white  beard 
in  imitation  of  his  master's — broad  and  square — and  his  words 
were  few  and  to  the  point. 

Ho  one  was  ever  at  home  in  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca  in  those 
days;  there  were  no  ladies  in  the  house;  it  was  a  man's  estab¬ 
lishment,  and  there  was  something  severely  masculine  in  the 
air  of  the  gloomy  courtyards  surrounded  by  dark  archways, 
where  not  a  single  plant  or  bit  of  colour  relieved  the  ancient 
stone.  The  pavement  was  clean  and  well  kept,  a  new  flagstone 
here  and  there  showing  that  some  care  was  bestowed  upon 
maintaining  it  in  good  repair;  but  for  any  decoration  there 
was  to  be  found  in  the  courts,  the  place  might  have  been  a 
fortress,  as  indeed  it  once  was.  The  owners,  father  and  son, 
lived  in  their  ancestral  home  in  a  sort  of  solemn  magnificence 
that  savoured  of  feudal  times.  Giovanni  was  the  only  son  of 
five-and-twenty  years  of  wedlock.  His  mother  had  been  older 
than  his  father,  and  had  now  been  dead  some  time.  She  had 
been  a  stern  dark  woman,  and  had  lent  no  feminine  touch  of 
grace  to  the  palace  while  she  lived  in  it,  her  melancholic  temper 
rather  rejoicing  in  the  sepulchral  gloom  that  hung  over  the 
house.  The  Saracinesca  had  always  been  a  manly  race,  pre¬ 
ferring  strength  to  beauty,  and  the  reality  of  power  to  the 
amenities  of  comfort. 

Giovanni  walked  home  from  the  afternoon  reception  at  the 
Embassy.  His  temper  seemed  to  crave  the  bleak  wet  air  of 
the  cold  streets,  and  he  did  not  hurry  himself.  He  intended 
to  dine  at  home  that  evening,  and  he  anticipated  some  kind  of 
disagreement  with  his  father.  The  two  men  were  too  much 
alike  not  to  be  congenial,  but  too  combative  by  nature  to  care 
for  eternal  peace.  On  the  present  occasion  it  was  likely  that 
there  would  be  a  struggle,  for  Giovanni  had  made  up  his  mind 
not  to  marry  Madame  Mayer,  and  his  father  was  equally  deter¬ 
mined  that  he  should  marry  her  at  once:  both  were  singularly 
strong  men,  singularly  tenacious  of  their  opinions. 

At  precisely  seven  o'clock  father  and  son  entered  from  differ¬ 
ent  doors  the  small  sitting-room  in  which  they  generally  met, 


22 


SARACINESCA. 


and  they  had  no  sooner  entered  than  dinner  was  announced. 
Two  words  might  suffice  for  the  description  of  old  Prince 
Saracinesca — he  was  an  elder  edition  of  his  son.  Sixty  years 
of  life  had  not  bent  his  strong  frame  nor  dimmed  the  brilliancy 
of  his  eyes,  but  his  hair  and  beard  were  snowy  white.  He  was 
broader  in  the  shoulder  and  deeper  in  the  chest  than  Giovanni, 
but  of  the  same  height,  and  well  proportioned  still,  with  little 
tendency  to  stoutness.  He  was  to  all  appearance  precisely 
what  his  son  would  be  at  his  age — keen  and  vigorous,  the  stern 
lines  of  his  face  grown  deeper,  and  his  very  dark  eyes  and  com¬ 
plexion  made  more  noticeable  by  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  his 
hair  and  broad  square  beard — the  same  type  in  a  different  stage 
of  development. 

The  dinner  was  served  with  a  certain  old-fashioned  magnifi¬ 
cence  which  has  grown  rare  in  Rome.  There  was  old  plate  and 
old  china  upon  the  table,  old  cut  glass  of  the  diamond  pattern, 
and  an  old  butler  who  moved  noiselessly  about  in  the  perform¬ 
ance  of  the  functions  he  had  exercised  in  the  same  room  for 
forty  years,  and  which  his  father  had  exercised  there  before 
him.  Prince  Saracinesca  and  Don  Giovanni  sat  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  round  table,  now  and  then  exchanging  a  few 
words. 

“I  was  caught  in  the  rain  this  afternoon,”  remarked,  the 
Prince. 

“  I  hope  you  will  not  have  a  cold,”  replied  his  son,  civilly. 
“  Why  do  you  walk  in  such  weather  ?  ” 

“And  you — why  do  you  walk?”  retorted  his  father.  “Are 
you  less  likely  to  take  cold  than  I  am  ?  I  walk  because  I  have 
always  walked.” 

“  That  is  an  excellent  reason.  I  walk  because  I  do  not  keep 
a  carriage.” 

“Why  do  not  you  keep  one  if  you  wish  to?”  asked  the 
Prince. 

“  I  will  do  as  you  wish.  I  will  buy  an  equipage  to-morrow, 
lest  I  should  again  walk  in  the  rain  and  catch  cold.  Where 
did  you  see  me  on  foot  ?  ” 

“  In  the  Orso,  half  an  hour  ago.  Why  do  you  talk  about  my 
wishes  in  that  absurd  way  ?  ” 

“  Since  you  say  it  is  absurd,  I  will  not  do  so,”  said  Giovanni, 
quietly. 

“  You  are  always  contradicting  me,”  said  the  Prince.  “  Some 
wine,  Pasquale.” 

“  Contradicting  you  ?  ”  repeated  Giovanni.  “  Nothing  could 
be  further  from  my  intentions.” 

The  old  Prince  slowly  sipped  a  glass  of  wine  before  he 
answered. 


SARACINESCA. 


23 


"  Why  do  not  you  set  up  an  establishment  for  yourself  and 
live  like  a  gentleman  ?”  he  asked  at  length.  “  You  are  rich — 
why  do  you  go  about  on  foot  and  dine  in  cafes  ?  ” 

“  Do  I  ever  dine  at  a  cafe  when  you  are  dining  alone  ?” 

"You  have  got  used  to  living  in  restaurants  in  Paris,” 
retorted  his  father.  "It  is  a  bad  habit.  What  was  the  use  of 
your  mother  leaving  you  a  fortune,  unless  you  will  live  in  a 
proper  fashion  ?  ” 

"I  understand  you  very  well,”  answered  Giovanni,  his  dark 
eyes  beginning  to  gleam.  “  You  know  all  that  is  a  pretence. 
I  am  the  most  home-staying  man  of  your  acquaintance.  It  is 
a  mere  pretence.  You  are  going  to  talk  about  my  marriage 
again.” 

"And  has  any  one  a  more  natural  right  to  insist  upon  your 
marriage  than  I  have  ?  ”  asked  the  elder  man,  hotly.  "  Leave 
the  wine  on  the  table,  Pasquale — and  the  fruit — here.  Give 
Don  Giovanni  his  cheese.  I  will  ring  for  the  coffee — leave  us.” 
The  butler  and  the  footman  left  the  room.  "Has  any  one  a 
more  natural  right,  I  ask  ?  ”  repeated  the  Prince  when  they 
were  alone. 

"No  one  but  myself,  I  should  say,”  answered  Giovanni, 
bitterly. 

"  Yourself — yourself  indeed  !  What  have  you  to  say  about 
it?  This  is  a  family  matter.  Would  you  have  Saracinesca 
sold,  to  be  distributed  piecemeal  among  a  herd  of  dogs  of 
starving  relations  you  never  heard  of,  merely  because  you  are 
such  a  vagabond,  such  a  Bohemian,  such  a  break-neck,  crazy 
good-for-nothing,  that  you  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  accept 
one  of  all  the  women  who  rush  into  your  arms?” 

"Your  affectionate  manner  of  speaking  of  your  relatives  is 
only  surpassed  by  your  good  taste  in  describing  the  probabili¬ 
ties  of  my  marriage,”  remarked  Giovanni,  scornfully. 

"And  you  say  you  never  contradict  me!”  exclaimed  the 
Prince,  angrily. 

"  If  this  is  an  instance,  I  can  safely  say  so.  Comment  is  not 
contradiction.” 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  not  repeatedly  refused  to 
marry  ?”  inquired  old  Saracinesca. 

"  That  would  be  untrue.  I  have  refused,  I  do  refuse,  and  I 
will  refuse,  just  so  long  as  it  pleases  me.” 

"  That  is  definite,  at  all  events.  You  will  go  on  refusing 
until  you  have  broken  your  silly  neck  in  imitating  Englishmen, 
and  then — good  night,  Saracinesca!  The  last  of  the  family 
will  have  come  to  a  noble  end!  ” 

“  If  the  only  use  of  my  existence  is  to  become  the  father  of 
heirs  to  your  titles,  I  do  not  care  to  enjoy  them  myself.” 


24 


SARACINESCA. 


“  You  will  not  enjoy  them  till  my  death,  at  all  events.  Did 
you  ever  reflect  that  I  might  marry  again  ?  " 

“  if  you  please  to  do  so,  do  not  hesitate  on  my  account. 
Madame  Mayer  will  accept  you  as  soon  as  me.  Marry  by  all 
means,  and  may  you  have  a  numerous  progeny;  and  may  they 
all  marry  in  their  turn,  the  day  they  are  twenty.  I  wish  you 
joy.” 

“  You  are  intolerable,  Giovanni.  I  should  think  you  would 
have  more  respect  for  Donna  Tullia - " 

“  Than  to  call  her  Madame  Mayer/'  interrupted  Giovanni. 

«  Than  to  suggest  that  she  cares  for  nothing  but  a  title  and 
a  fortune - ■" 

“  You  showed  much  respect  to  her  a  moment  ago,  when  you 
suggested  that  she  was  ready  to  rush  into  my  arms." 

“  I!  I  never  said  such  a  thing.  I  said  that  any  woman - r 

“  Including  Madame  Mayer,  of  course,"  interrupted  Gio¬ 
vanni  again. 

“  Can  you  not  let  me  speak?"  roared  the  Prince.  Dio- 
vanni  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little,  poured  out  a  glass  of 
wine,  and  helped  himself  to  cheese,  but  said  nothing.  Seeing 
that  his  son  said  nothing,  old  Saracinesca  was  silent  too;  he 
was  so  angry  that  he  had  lost  the  thread  of  his  ideas.  Per¬ 
haps  Giovanni  regretted  the  quarrelsome  tone  he  had  taken,  for 
he  presently  spoke  to  his  father  in  a  more  conciliatory  tone. 

“  Let  us  be  just,"  he  said.  “  I  will  listen  to  you,  and  I  shall 
be  glad  if  you  will  listen  to  me.  In  the  first  place,  when  I 
think  of  marriage  I  represent  something  to  myself  by  the 
term - " 

“l  hope  so,"  growled  the  old  man.  _ 

“  I  look  upon  marriage  as  an  important  step  in  a  man  s  life. 
I  am  not  so  old  as  to  make  my  marriage  an  immediate  neces¬ 
sity,  nor  so  young  as  to  be  able  wholly  to  disregard  it.  I  do 
not  desire  to  be  hurried;  for  when  I  make  up  my  mind,  I  in¬ 
tend  to  make  a  choice  which,  if  it  does  not  ensure  happiness, 
will  at  least  ensure  peace.  I  do  not  wish  to  marry  Madame 
Mayer.  She  is  young,  handsome,  rich - " 

“  Very,"  ejaculated  the  Prince.  w 

“  Very.  I  also  am  young  and  rich,  if  not  handsome. 

“  Certainly  not  handsome,"  said  his  father,  who  was  nursing 
his  wrath,  and  meanwhile  spoke  calmly.  “  You  are  the  image 


of  me."  _ .  .  .  {t  -r>  . 

“  I  am  proud  of  the  likeness,"  said  Giovanni,  gravely.  Put 

to  return  to  Madame  Mayer.  She  is  a  widow—  "  . 

“  Is  that  her  fault  ? "  inquired  his  father  irrelevantly,  his 
anger  rising  again. 

“  I  trust  not,"  said  Giovanni,  with  a  smile.  I  trust  she  did 


SARACINESCA. 


25 


not  murder  old  Mayer.  Nevertheless  she  is  a  widow.  That  is 
a  strong  objection.  Have  any  of  my  ancestors  married 
widows  ?  ” 

“  You  show  your  ignorance  at  every  turn,”  said  the  old 
Prince,  with  a  scornful  laugh.  “  Leone  Saracinesca  married 
the  widow  of  the  Elector  of  Limburger-Stinkenstein  in  1581.” 

“  It  is  probably  the  German  blood  in  our  veins  which  gives 
you  your  taste  for  argument,”  remarked  Giovanni.  “  Because 
three  hundred  years  ago  an  ancestor  married  a  widow,  I  am  to 
marry  one  now.  Wait — do  not  be  angry — there  are  other 
reasons  why  I  do  not  care  for  Madame  Mayer.  She  is  too  gay 
for  me — too  fond  of  the  world.” 

The  Prince  burst  into  a  loud  ironical  laugh.  His  white 
hair  and  beard  bristled  about  his  dark  face,  and  he  showed  all 
his  teeth,  strong  and  white  still. 

“That  is  magnificent!”  he  cried;  “it  is  superb,  splendid,  a 
piece  of  unpurchasable  humour  !  Giovanni  Saracinesca  has 
found  a  woman  who  is  too  gay  for  him !  Heaven  be  praised ! 
We  know  his  taste  at  last.  We  will  give  him  a  nun,  a  miracle 
of  all  the  virtues,  a  little  girl  out  of  a  convent,  vowed  to  a  life 
of  sacrifice  and  self-renunciation.  That  will  please  him — he 
will  be  a  model  happy  husband.” 

“  I  do  not  understand  this  extraordinary  outburst,”  answered 
Giovanni,  with  cold  scorn.  “  Your  mirth  is  amazing,  but  I 
fail  to  understand  its  source.” 

His  father  ceased  laughing,  and  looked  at  him  curiously,  his 
heavy  brows  bending  with  the  intenseness  of  his  gaze.  Gio¬ 
vanni  returned  the  look,  and  it  seemed  as  though  those  two 
strong  angry  men  were  fencing  across  the  table  with  their  fiery 
glances.  The  son  was  the  first  to  speak. 

“  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  I  am  not  the  kind  of  man  to 
be  allowed  to  marry  a  young  girl  ?  ”  he  asked,  not  taking  his 
eyes  from  his  father. 

“  Look  you,  boy,”  returned  the  Prince,  “  I  will  have  no  more 
nonsense.  I  insist  upon  this  match,  as  I  have  told  you  before. 
It  is  the  most  suitable  one  that  I  can  find  for  you;  and  instead 
of  being  grateful,  you  turn  upon  me  and  refuse  to  do  your 
duty.  Donna  Tullia  is  twenty-three  years  of  age.  She  is 
brilliant,  rich.  There  is  nothing  against  her.  She  is  a  distant 
cousin - ” 

“  One  of  the  flock  of  vultures  you  so  tenderly  referred  to,” 
remarked  Giovanni. 

“Silence!”  cried  old  Saracinesca,  striking  his  heavy  hand 
upon  the  table  so  that  the  glasses  shook  together.  “  I  will  be 
heard;  and  what  is  more,  I  will  be  obeyed.  Donna  Tullia  is  a 
relation.  The  union  of  two  such  fortunes  will  be  of  immense 


26 


SARACINESCA. 


advantage  to  yonr  children.  There  is  everything  in  favour  of 
the  match — nothing  against  it.  Yon  shall  marry  her  a  month 
from  to-day.  I  will  give  you  the  title  of  Sant’  Ilario,  with  the 
estate  outright  into  the  bargain,  and  the  palace  in  the  Corso  to 
live  in,  if  you  do  not  care  to  live  here.” 

“And  if  I  refuse  ?”  asked  Giovanni,  choking  down  his  anger. 

“  If  you  refuse,  you  shall  leave  my  house  a  month  from 
to  day,”  said  the  Prince,  savagely. 

“  Whereby  I  shall  be  fulfilling  your  previous  commands,  in 
setting  up  an  establishment  for  myself  and  living  like  a  gentle¬ 
man,”  returned  Giovanni,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  “  It  is  nothing 
to  me — if  you  turn  me  out.  I  am  rich,  as  you  justly  ob¬ 
served.” 

“  You  will  have  the  more  leisure  to  lead  the  life  you  like 
best,”  retorted  the  Prince  ;  “  to  hang  about  in  society,  to  go 

where  you  please,  to  make  love  to - ”  the  old  man  stopped 

a  moment.  His  son  was  watching  him  fiercely,  his  hand 
clenched  upon  the  table,  his  face  as  white  as  death. 

“  To  whom  ?  ”  he  asked,  with  a  terrible  effort  to  be  calm. 

“Do  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  you  ?  Do  you  think  yonr 
father  is  less  strong  or  less  fierce  than  you  ?  To  whom  ?  ”  cried 
the  angry  old  man,  his  whole  pent-up  fury  bursting  out  as  he 
rose  suddenly  to  his  feet.  “  To  whom  but  to  Corona  d’Astrar- 
dente — to  whom  else  should  you  make  love  ? — wasting  your 
youth  and  life  upon  a  mad  passion  !  All  Rome  says  it — I  will 
say  it  too  !  ” 

“  You  have  said  it  indeed,”  answered  Giovanni,  in  a  very 
low  voice.  He  remained  seated  at  the  table,  not  moving  a 
muscle,  his  face  as  the  face  of  the  dead.  “  You  have  said  it, 
and  in  insulting  that  lady  you  have  said  a  thing  not  worthy 
for  one  of  our  blood  to  say.  God  help  me  to  remember  that 
you  are  my  father,”  he  added,  trembling  suddenly. 

“Hold!”  said  the  Prince,  who,  with  all  his  ambition  for  his 
son,  and  his  hasty  temper,  was  an  honest  gentleman.  “  I  never 
insulted  her — she  is  above  suspicion.  It  is  you  who  are  wast¬ 
ing  your  life  in  a  hopeless  passion  for  her.  See,  I  speak 
calmly - ” 

“What  does ‘all  Rome  say’?”  asked  Giovanni,  interrupt¬ 
ing  him.  He  was  still  deadly  pale,  but  his  hand  was  un¬ 
clenched,  and  as  he  spoke  he  rested  his  head  upon  it,  looking 
down  at  the  tablecloth. 

“  Everybody  says  that  you  are  in  love  with  the  Astrardente, 
and  that  her  husband  is  beginning  to  notice  it.” 

“  It  is  enough,  sir,”  said  Giovanni,  in  low  tones.  “  I  will 
consider  this  marriage  you  propose.  Give  me  until  the  spring 
to  decide.” 


SARACINESCA. 


27 


“  That  is  a  long  time,”  remarked  the  old  Prince,  resuming 
his  seat  and  beginning  to  peel  an  orange,  as  though  nothing 
had  happened.  He  was  far  from  being  calm,  but  his  son's 
sudden  change  of  manner  had  disarmed  his  anger.  He  was 
passionate  and  impetuous,  thoughtless  in  his  language,  and 
tyrannical  in  his  determination;  but  he  loved  Giovanni  dearly 
for  all  that. 

“  I  do  not  think  it  long,”  said  Giovanni,  thoughtfully.  “  I 
give  you  my  word  that  I  will  seriously  consider  the  marriage. 
If  it  is  possible  for  me  to  marry  Donna  Tullia,  I  will  obey  you, 
and  I  will  give  you  my  answer  before  Easter-day.  I  cannot  do 
more.” 

“  I  sincerely  hope  you  will  take  my  advice,”  answered  Sara- 
cinesca,  now  entirely  pacified.  “If  you  cannot  make  up  your 
mind  to  the  match,  I  may  be  able  to  find  something  else. 
There  is  Bianca  Valdarno — she  will  have  a  quarter  of  the 
estate.” 

“  She  is  so  very  ugly,”  objected  Giovanni,  quietly.  He  was 
still  much  agitated,  but  he  answered  his  father  mechanically. 

“  That  is  true — they  are  all  ugly,  those  Yaldarni.  Besides, 
they  are  of  Tuscan  origin.  What  do  you  say  to  the  little  Rocca 
girl  ?  She  has  great  chic ;  she  was  brought  up  in  England. 
She  is  pretty  enough.” 

“  I  am  afraid  she  would  be  extravagant.” 

“She  could  spend  her  own  money  then;  it  will  be  sufficient.” 

“  It  is  better  to  be  on  the  safe  side,”  said  Giovanni.  Sud¬ 
denly  he  changed  his  position,  and  again  looked  at  his  father. 
“  I  am  sorry  we  always  quarrel  about  this  question,”  he  said. 
“  I  do  not  really  want  to  marry,  but  I  wish  to  oblige  yon,  and  I 
will  try.  Why  do  we  always  come  to  words  over  it  ?  ” 

“I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,”  said  the  Prince,  with  a  pleasant 
smile.  “I  have  such  a  diabolical  temper,  I  suppose.” 

“And  I  have  inherited  it,”  answered  Don  Giovanni,  with  a 
laugh  that  was  meant  to  be  cheerful.  “  But  I  quite  see  your 
point  of  view.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  settle  in  life  by  this  time.” 

“  Seriously,  I  think  so,  my  son.  Here  is  to  your  future 
happiness,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  touching  his  glass  with  his 
lips. 

“  And  here  is  to  our  future  peace,”  returned  Giovanni,  also 
drinking. 

“  We  never  really  quarrel,  Giovanni,  do  we  ?”  said  his  father. 
Every  trace  of  anger  had  vanished.  His  strong  face  beamed 
with  an  affectionate  smile  that  was  like  the  sun  after  a  thun¬ 
derstorm. 

“  No,  indeed,”  answered  his  son,  cordially.  “  We  cannot 
afford  to  quarrel;  there  are  only  two  of  us  left.” 


28 


SAHACIKESCA. 


“  That  is  what  I  always  say,”  assented  the  Prince,  beginning 
to  eat  the  orange  he  had  carefully  peeled  since  he  had  grown 
calm.  “  If  two  men  like  you  and  me,  my  boy,  can  thoroughly 
agree,  there  is  nothing  we  cannot  accomplish;  whereas  if  we 
go  against  each  other - ” 

“  Justitia  non  fit,  ccelum  vero  ruet,”  suggested  Giovanni,  in 
parody  of  the  proverb. 

“lama  little  rusty  in  my  Latin,  Giovannino,”  said  the  old 
gentleman. 

“  Heaven  is  turned  upside  down,  but  justice  is  not  done.” 

“No;  one  is  never  just  when  one  is  angry.  But  storms 
clear  the  sky,  as  they  say  up  at  Saracinesca.” 

“  By  the  bye,  have  you  heard  whether  that  question  of  the 
timber  has  been  settled  yet?”  asked  Giovanni. 

“  Of  course — I  had  forgotten.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,” 
answered  his  father,  cheerfully.  So  they  chatted  peacefully 
for  another  half-hour;  and  no  one  would  have  thought,  in 
looking  at  them,  that  such  fierce  passions  had  been  roused,  nor 
that  one  of  them  felt  as  though  his  death-warrant  had  been 
signed.  When  they  separated,  Giovanni  went  to  his  own 
rooms,  and  locked  himself  in. 

He  had  assumed  an  air  of  calmness  which  was  not  real  before 
he  left  his  father.  In  truth  he  was  violently  agitated.  He  was 
as  fiery  as  his  father,  but  his  passions  were  of  greater  strength 
and  of  longer  duration;  for  his  mother  had  been  a  Spaniard, 
and  something  of  the  melancholy  of  her  country  had  entered 
into  his  soul,  giving  depth  and  durability  to  the  hot  Italian 
character  he  inherited  from  his  father.  Nor  did  the  latter  sus¬ 
pect  the  cause  of  his  son’s  sudden  change  of  tone  in  regard  to 
the  marriage.  It  was  precisely  the  difference  in  temperament 
which  made  Giovanni  incomprehensible  to  the  old  Prince. 

Giovanni  had  realised  for  more  than  a  year  past  that  he 
loved  Corona  d’Astrardente.  Contrary  to  the  custom  of  young 
men  in  his  position,  he  determined  from  the  first  that  he  would 
never  let  her  know  it;  and  herein  lay  the  key  to  all  his  actions. 
He  had,  as  he  thought,  made  a  point  of  behaving  to  her  on  all 
occasions  as  he  behaved  to  the  other  women  he  met  in  the 
world,  and  he  believed  that  he  had  skilfully  concealed  his  pas¬ 
sion  from  the  world  and  from  the  woman  he  loved.  He  had 
acted  on  all  occasions  with  a  circumspection  which  was  not 
natural  to  him,  and  for  which  he  undeniably  deserved  great 
credit.  It  had  been  a  year  of  constant  struggles,  constant 
efforts  at  self-control,  constant  determination  that,  if  possible, 
he  would  overcome  his  instincis.  It  was  true  that,  when  occa¬ 
sion  offered,  he  had  permitted  himself  the  pleasure  of  talking 
to  Corona  d’Astrardente — talking,  he  well  knew,  upon  the  most 


SARACIHESCA. 


29 


general  subjects,  but  finding  at  each  interview  some  new  point 
of  sympathy.  Never,  he  could  honestly  say,  had  he  approached 
in  that  time  the  subject  of  love,  nor  even  the  equally  dangerous 
topic  of  friendship,  the  discussion  of  which  leads  to  so  many 
ruinous  experiments.  He  had  never  by  look  or  word  sought 
to  interest  the  dark  Duchessa  in  his  doings  nor  in  himself;  he 
had  talked  of  books,  of  politics,  of  social  questions,  but  never 
of  himself  nor  of  herself.  He  had  faithfully  kept  the  promise 
he  had  made  in  his  heart,  that  since  he  was  so  unfortunate  as 
to  love  the  wife  of  another — a  woman  of  such  nobility  that 
even  in  Rome  no  breath  had  been  breathed  against  her — he 
would  keep  his  unfortunate  passion  to  himself.  Astrardente 
was  old,  almost  decrepit,  in  spite  of  his  magnificent  wig;  Corona 
was  but  two-and- twenty  years  of  age.  If  ever  her  husband 
died,  Giovanni  would  present  himself  before  the  world  as  her 
suitor;  meanwhile  he  would  do  nothing  to  injure  her  self- 
respect  nor  to  disturb  her  peace — he  hardly  flattered  himself 
he  could  do  that,  for  he  loved  her  truly — and  above  all,  he 
would  do  nothing  to  compromise  the  unsullied  reputation  she 
enjoyed.  She  might  never  love  him;  but  he  was  strong  and 
patient,  and  would  do  her  the  only  honour  it  was  in  his  power 
to  do  her,  by  waiting  patiently. 

But  Giovanni  had  not  considered  that  he  was  the  most  con¬ 
spicuous  man  in  society;  that  there  were  many  who  watched 
his  movements,  in  hopes  he  would  come  their  way;  that  when 
he  entered  a  room,  many  had  noticed  that,  though  he  never 
went  directly  to  Corona's  side,  he  always  looked  first  towards 
her,  and  never  omitted  to  speak  with  her  in  the  course  of  an 
evening.  Keen  observers,  the  jays  of  society  who  hover  about 
the  eagle's  nest,  had  not  failed  to  observe  a  look  of  annoyance 
on  Giovanni's  face  when  he  did  not  succeed  in  being  alone  by 
Corona's  side  for  at  least  a  few  minutes;  and  Del  Ferice,  who 
was  a  sort  of  news-carrier  in  Rome,  had  now  and  then  hinted 
that  Giovanni  was  in  love.  People  had  repeated  his  hints,  as 
he  intended  they  should,  with  the  illuminating  wit  peculiar  to 
tale-bearers,  and  the  story  had  gone  abroad  accordingly.  True, 
there  was  not  a  man  in  Rome  bold  enough  to  allude  to  the 
matter  in  Giovanni's  presence,  even  if  any  one  had  seen  any 
advantage  in  so  doing;  but  such  things  do  not  remain  hidden. 
His  own  father  had  told  him  in  a  fit  of  anger,  and  the  blow  had 
produced  its  effect. 

Giovanni  sat  down  in  a  deep  easy-chair  in  his  own  room,  and 
thought  over  the  situation.  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  be 
furiously  angry  with  his  father;  but  the  latter  having  instantly 
explained  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  against  the  Du¬ 
chessa,  Giovanni's  anger  against  the  Prince  had  turned  against 


30 


SARACINESCA. 


himself.  It  was  bitter  to  think  that  all  his  self-denial,  all  his 
many  and  prolonged  efforts  to  conceal  his  love,  had  been  of  no 
avail.  He  cursed  his  folly  and  imprudence,  while  wondering 
how  it  was  possible  that  the  story  should  have  got  abroad.  He 
did  not  waver  in  his  determination  to  hide  his  inclinations,  to 
destroy  the  impression  he  had  so  unwillingly  produced.  The 
first  means  he  found  in  his  way  seemed  the  best.  To  marry 
Donna  Tullia  at  once,  before  the  story  of  his  affection  for  the 
Duchessa  had  gathered  force,  would,  he  thought,  effectually 
shut  the  mouths  of  the  gossips.  From  one  point  of  view  it 
was  a  noble  thought,  the  determination  to  sacrifice  himself 
wholly  and  for  ever,  rather  than  permit  his  name  to  be  men¬ 
tioned  ever  so  innocently  in  connection  with  the  woman  he 
loved;  to  root  out  utterly  his  love  for  her  by  seriously  engaging 
his  faith  to  another,  and  keeping  that  engagement  with  all 
the  strength  of  fidelity  he  knew  himself  to  possess.  He 
would  save  Corona  from  annoyance,  and  her  name  from  the 
scandal-mongers;  and  if  any  one  ever  dared  to  mention  the 
story - 

Giovanni  rose  to  his  feet  and  mechanically  took  a  fencing- 
foil  from  the  wall,  as  he  often  did  for  practice.  If  any  one 
mentioned  the  story,  he  thought,  he  had  the  means  to  silence 
them,  quickly  and  for  ever.  His  eyes  flashed  suddenly  at  the 
idea  of  action — any  action,  even  fighting,  which  might  be  dis¬ 
tantly  connected  with  Corona.  Then  he  tossed  down  the 
rapier  and  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  and  sat  quite  still, 
staring  at  the  trophies  of  armour  upon  the  wall  opposite. 

He  could  not  do  it.  To  wrong  one  woman  for  the  sake  of 
shielding  another  was  not  in  his  power.  People  might  laugh 
at  him  and  call  him  Quixotic,  forsooth,  because  he  would  not 
do  like  every  one  else  and  make  a  marriage  of  convenience — of 
propriety.  Propriety!  when  his  heart  was  breaking  within 
him;  when  every  fibre  of  his  strong  frame  quivered  with  the 
strain  of  passion ;  when  his  aching  eyes  saw  only  one  face,  and 
his  ears  echoed  the  words  she  had  spoken  that  very  afternoon  ! 
Propriety  indeed  !  Propriety  was  good  enough  for  cold-blooded 
dullards.  Donna  Tullia  had  done  him  no  harm  that  he  should 
marry  her  for  propriety’s  sake,  and  make  her  life  miserable  for 
thirty,  forty,  fifty  years.  It  would  be  propriety  rather  for  him 
to  go  away,  to  bury  himself  in  the  ends  of  the  earth,  until  he 
could  forget  Corona  d’Astrardente,  her  splendid  eyes,  and  her 
deep  sweet  voice. 

He  had  pledged  his  father  his  word  that  he  would  consider 
the  marriage,  and  he  was  to  give  his  answer  before  Easter. 
That  was  a  long  time  yet.  He  would  consider  it;  and  if  by 
Eastertide  he  had  forgotten  Corona,  he  would -  he  laughed 


SAKACINESCA. 


31 


aloud  in  his  silent  room,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  startled 
him  from  his  reverie. 

Forget  ?  Did  such  men  as  he  forget  ?  Other  men  did. 
What  were  they  made  of  ?  They  did  not  love  such  women, 
perhaps;  that  was  the  reason  they  forgot.  Any  one  could  for¬ 
get  poor  Donna  Tullia.  And  yet  how  was  it  possible  to  forget 
if  one  loved  truly  ? 

Giovanni  had  never  believed  himself  in  love  before.  He  had 
known  one  or  two  women  who  had  attracted  him  strongly ;  but 
he  had  soon  found  out  that  he  had  no  real  sympathy  with 
them,  that  though  they  amused  him  they  had  no  charm  for 
him — most  of  all,  that  he  could  not  imagine  himself  tied  to 
any  one  of  them  for  life  without  conceiving  the  situation  hor¬ 
rible  in  the  extreme.  To  his  independent  nature  the  idea  of 
such  ties  was  repugnant:  he  knew  himself  too  courteous  to 
break  through  the  civilities  of  life  with  a  wife  he  did  not  love; 
but  he  knew  also  that  in  marrying  a  woman  who  was  indif¬ 
ferent  to  him,  he  would  be  engaging  to  play  a  part  for  life  in 
the  most  fearful  of  all  plays — the  part  of  a  man  who  strives  to 
bear  bravely  the  galling  of  a  chain  he  is  too  honourable  to 
break. 

It  was  four  o’clock  in  the  morning  when  Giovanni  went  to 
bed;  and  even  then  he  slept  little,  for  his  dreams  were  dis¬ 
turbed.  Once  he  thought  he  stood  upon  a  green  lawn  with  a 
sword  in  his  hand,  and  the  blood  upon  its  point,  his  opponent 
lying  at  his  feet.  Again,  he  thought  he  was  alone  in  a  vast 
drawing-room,  and  a  dark  woman  came  and  spoke  gently  to 
him,  saying,  “Marry  her  for  my  sake.”  He  awoke  with  a 
groan.  The  church  clocks  were  striking  eight,  and  the  meet 
was  at  eleven,  five  miles  beyond  the  Porta  Pia.  Giovanni 
started  up  and  rang  for  his  servant. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  half  Rome  turned  out  to  sefe  the 
meet,  not  because  it  was  in  any  way  different  from  other  meets, 
but  because  it  chanced  that  society  had  a  fancy  to  attend  it. 
Society  is  very  like  a  fever  patient  in  a  delirium ;  it  is  rarely 
accountable  for  its  actions;  it  scarcely  ever  knows  what  it  is 
saying;  and  occasionally,  without  the  least  warning  or  premedi¬ 
tation,  it  leaps  out  of  bed  at  an  early  hour  of  the  morning  and 
rushes  frantically  in  pursuit  of  its  last  hallucination.  The 
main  difference  is,  that  whereas  a  man  in  a  fever  has  a  nurse, 
society  has  none. 

On  the  present  occasion  every  one  had  suddenly  conceived 


32 


SARACINESCA. 


the  idea  of  going  to  the  meet,  and  the  long  road  beyond  the 
Porta  Pia  was  dotted  for  miles  with  equipages  of  every  descrip¬ 
tion,  from  the  fonr-in-hand  of  Prince  Valdarno  to  the  humble 
donkey-cart  of  the  caterer  who  sells  messes  of  boiled  beans,  and 
bread  and  cheese,  and  salad  to  the  grooms — an  institution  not 
connected  in  the  English  mind  with  hunting.  One  after  an¬ 
other  the  vehicles  rolled  out  along  the  road,  past  Sant*  Agnese, 
down  the  hill  and  across  the  Ponte  Nomentana,  and  far  up 
beyond  to  a  place  where  three  roads  met  and  there  was  a  broad 
open  stretch  of  wet,  withered  grass.  Here  the  carriages  turned 
in  and  ranged  themselves  side  by  side,  as  though  they  were 
pausing  in  the  afternoon  drive  upon  the  Pincio,  instead  of 
being  five  miles  out  upon  the  broad  Campagna. 

To  describe  the  mountains  to  southward  of  Rome  would  be 
an  insult  to  nature;  to  describe  a  meet  would  be  an  affront  to 
civilised  readers  of  the  English  language.  The  one  is  too 
familiar  to  everybody;  the  pretty  crowd  of  men  and  women, 
dotted  with  pink  and  set  off  by  the  neutral  colour  of  the  winter 
fields;  the  hunters  of  all  ages,  and  sizes,  and  breeds,  led  slowly 
up  and  down  by  the  grooms;  while  from  time  to  time  some 
rider  gets  into  the  saddle  and  makes  himself  comfortable, 
assures  himself  of  girth  and  stirrup,  and  of  the  proper  dis¬ 
posal  of  the  sandwich-box  and  sherry-flask,  gives  a  final  word 
of  instruction  to  his  groom,  and  then  moves  slowly  off.  A 
Roman  meet  is  a  little  less  business-like  than  the  same  thing 
elsewhere;  there  is  a  little  more  dawdling,  a  little  more  conver¬ 
sation  when  many  ladies  chance  to  have  come  to  see  the  hounds 
throw  off;  otherwise  it  is  not  different  from  other  meets.  As 
for  the  Roman  mountains,  they  are  so  totally  unlike  any  other 
hills  in  the  world,  and  so  extremely  beautiful  in  their  own 
peculiar  way,  that  to  describe  them  would  be  an  idle  and  a  use¬ 
less  task,  which  could  only  serve  to  exhibit  the  vanity  of  the 
writer  and  the  feebleness  of  his  pen. 

Don  Giovanni  arrived  early  in  spite  of  his  sleepless  night. 
He  descended  from  his  dogcart  by  the  roadside,  instead  of 
driving  into  the  field,  and  he  took  a  careful  survey  of  the  car¬ 
riages  he  saw  before  him.  Conspicuous  in  the  distance  he 
distinguished  Donna  Tullia  Mayer  standing  among  a  little 
crowd  of  men  near  Valdarno’s  drag.  She  was  easily  known  by 
her  dress,  as  Del  Ferice  had  remarked  on  the  previous  evening. 
On  this  occasion  she  wore  a  costume  in  which  the  principal 
colours  were  green  and  yellow,  an  enormous  hat,  with  feathers 
in  the  same  proportion  surmounting  her  head,  and  she  carried 
a  yellow  parasol.  She  was  a  rather  handsome  woman  of  middle 
height,  with  unnaturally  blond  hair,  and  a  fairly  good  com¬ 
plexion,  which  as  yet  she  had  wisely  abstained  from  attempting 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


33 


to  improve  by  artificial  means;  her  eyes  were  blue,  but  uncer¬ 
tain  in  their  glance — of  the  kind  which  do  not  inspire  confi¬ 
dence;  and  her  mouth  was  much  admired,  being  small  and  red, 
with  full  lips.  She  was  rapid  in  her  movements,  and  she  spoke 
in  a  loud  voice,  easily  collecting  people  about  her  wherever 
there  were  any  to  collect.  Her  conversation  was  not  brilliant, 
but  it  was  so  abundant  that  its  noisy  vivacity  passed  current 
for  cleverness;  she  had  a  remarkably  keen  judgment  of  people, 
and  a  remarkably  bad  taste  in  her  opinions  of  things  artistic, 
from  beauty  in  nature  to  beauty  in  dress,  but  she  maintained 
her  point  of  view  obstinately,  and  admitted  no  contradiction. 
It  was  a  singular  circumstance  that  whereas  many  of  her  attri¬ 
butes  were  distinctly  vulgar,  she  nevertheless  had  an  indescrib¬ 
able  air  of  good  breeding,  the  strange  inimitable  stamp  of  social 
superiority  which  cannot  be  acquired  by  any  known  process  of 
education.  A  person  seeing  her  might  be  surprised  at  her 
loud  talking,  amused  at  her  eccentricities  of  dress,  and  shocked 
at  her  bold  manner,  but  no  one  would  ever  think  of  classing 
her  anywhere  save  in  what  calls  itself  “  the  best  society.” 

Among  the  men  who  stood  talking  to  Donna  Tullia  was  the 
inevitable  Del  Ferice,  a  man  of  whom  it  might  be  said  that  he 
was  never  missed,  because  he  was  always  present.  Giovanni 
disliked  Del  Ferice  without  being  able  to  define  his  aversion. 
He  disliked  generally  men  whom  he  suspected  of  duplicity; 
and  he  had  no  reason  for  supposing  that  truth,  looking  into 
her  mirror,  would  have  seen  there  the  image  of  TJgo’s  fat  pale 
face  and  colourless  moustache.  But  if  Ugo  was  a  liar,  he  must 
have  had  a  good  memory,  for  he  never  got  himself  into  trouble, 
and  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  useful  member  of  society, 
an  honour  to  which  persons  of  doubtful  veracity  rarely  attain. 
Giovanni,  however,  disliked  him,  and  suspected  him  of  many 
things;  and  although  he  had  intended  to  go  up  to  Donna 
Tullia,  the  sight  of  Del  Ferice  at  her  side  very  nearly  prevented 
him.  He  strolled  leisurely  down  the  little  slope,  and  as  he 
neared  the  crowd,  spoke  to  one  or  two  acquaintances,  mentally 
determining  to  avoid  Madame  Mayer,  and  to  mount  immedi¬ 
ately.  But  he  was  disappointed  in  his  intention.  As  he  stood 
for  a  moment  beside  the  carriage  of  the  Marchesa  Rocca,  ex¬ 
changing  a  few  words  with  her,  and  looking  with  some  interest 
at  her  daughter,  the  little  Rocca  girl  whom  his  father  had 
proposed  as  a  possible  wife  for  him,  he  forgot  his  proximity 
to  the  lady  he  wished  to  avoid;  and  when,  a  few  seconds 
later,  he  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  his  horse,  Madame 
Mayer  stepped  forward  from  the  knot  of  her  admirers  and 
tapped  him  familiarly  upon  the  shoulder  with  the  handle  of 
her  parasol. 


34 


SARACINESCA. 


“  So  you  were  not  going  to  speak  to  me  to-day  ?  ”  she  said 
rather  roughly,  after  her  manner. 

Giovanni  turned  sharply  and  faced  her,  bowing  low.  Donna 
Tullia  laughed. 

“  Is  there  anything  so  amazingly  ridiculous  in  my  appear¬ 
ance  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“  Altro  !  when  you  make  that  tremendous  salute - ” 

“  It  was  intended  to  convey  an  apology  as  well  as  a  greeting,” 
answered  Don  Giovanni,  politely. 

“  I  would  like  more  apology  and  less  greeting.” 

“  I  am  ready  to  apologise - ” 

“  Humbly,  without  defending  yourself,”  said  Donna  Tullia, 
beginning  to  walk  slowly  forward.  Giovanni  was  obliged  to 
follow  her. 

“  My  defence  is,  nevertheless,  a  very  good  one,”  he  said. 

“  Well,  if  it  is  really  good,  I  may  listen  to  it;  but  you  will 
not  make  me  believe  that  you  intended  to  behave  properly.” 

“  I  am  in  a  very  bad  humour.  I  would  not  inflict  my  cross 
temper  upon  you;  therefore  I  avoided  you.” 

Donna  Tullia  eyed  him  attentively.  When  she  answered  she 
drew  in  her  small  red  lips  with  an  air  of  annoyance. 

“You  look  as  though  you  were  in  bad  humour,”  she  an¬ 
swered.  “  I  am  sorry  I  disturbed  you.  It  is  better  to  leave 
sleeping  dogs  alone,  as  the  proverb  says.” 

“  I  have  not  snapped  yet,”  said  Giovanni.  “  I  am  not  dan¬ 
gerous,  I  assure  you.” 

“  Oh,  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  you,”  replied  his  com¬ 
panion,  with  a  little  scorn.  “  Do  not  flatter  yourself  your  little 
humours  frighten  me.  I  suppose  you  intend  to  follow  ?” 

“Yes,”  answered  Saracinesca,  shortly;  he  was  beginning  to 
weary  of  Donna  Tullia’s  manner  of  taking  him  to  task. 

“You  had  much  better  come  with  us,  and  leave  the  poor 
foxes  alone.  Valdarno  is  going  to  drive  us  round  by  the  cross¬ 
roads  to  the  Capannelle.  We  will  have  a  picnic  lunch,  and  be 
home  before  three  o’clock.” 

“  Thanks  very  much.  I  cannot  let  my  horse  shirk  his  work. 
I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me - ” 

“  Again  ?  ”  exclaimed  Donna  Tullia.  “  You  are  always  mak¬ 
ing  excuses.”  Then  she  suddenly  changed  her  tone,  and  looked 
down.  “I  wish  you  would  come  with  us,”  she  said,  gently. 
“  It  is  not  often  I  ask  you  to  do  anything.” 

Giovanni  looked  at  her  quickly.  He  knew  that  Donna  Tullia 
wished  to  marry  him;  he  even  suspected  that  his  father  had 
discussed  the  matter  with  her — no  uncommon  occurrence  when 
a  marriage  has  to  be  arranged  with  a  widow.  But  he  did  not 
know  that  Donna  Tullia  was  in  love  with  him  in  her  own  odd 


SARACINESCA. 


35 


fashion.  He  looked  at  her,  and  he  saw  that  as  she  spoke  there 
were  tears  of  vexation  in  her  bold  blue  eyes.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  but  natural  courtesy  won  the  day. 

“  I  will  go  with  you,”  he  said,  quietly.  A  blush  of  pleasure 
rose  to  Madame  Mayer’s  pink  cheeks;  she  felt  she  had  made  a 
point,  but  she  was  not  willing  to  show  her  satisfaction. 

“You  say  it  as  though  you  were  conferring  a  favour,”  she 
said,  with  a  show  of  annoyance,  which  was  belied  by  the  happy 
expression  of  her  face. 

“Pardon  me;  I  myself  am  the  favoured  person,”  replied 
Giovanni,  mechanically.  He  had  yielded  because  he  did  not 
know  how  to  refuse;  but  he  already  regretted  it,  and  would 
have  given  much  to  escape  from  the  party. 

“You  do  not  look  as  though  you  believed  it,”  said  Donna 
Tullia,  eyeing  him  critically.  “If  you  are  going  to  be  dis¬ 
agreeable,  I  release  you.”  She  said  this  well  knowing,  the 
while,  that  he  would  not  accept  of  his  liberty. 

“  If  you  are  so  ready  to  release  me,  as  you  call  it,  you  do  not 
really  want  me,”  said  her  companion.  Donna  Tullia  bit  her 
lip,  and  there  was  a  moment’s  pause.  “  If  you  will  excuse  me 
a  moment  I  will  send  my  horse  home — I  will  join  you  at  once.” 

“  There  is  your  horse — right  before  us,”  said  Madame  Mayer. 
Even  that  short  respite  was  not  allowed  him,  and  she  waited 
while  Don  Giovanni  ordered  the  astonished  groom  to  take  his 
hunter  for  an  hour’s  exercise  in  a  direction  where  he  would  not 
fall  in  with  the  hounds. 

“I  did  not  believe  you  would  really  do  it,”  said  Donna 
Tullia,  as  the  two  turned  and  sauntered  back  towards  the  car¬ 
riages.  Most  of  the  men  who  meant  to  follow  had  already 
mounted,  and  the  little  crowd  had  thinned  considerably.  But 
while  they  had  been  talking  another  carriage  had  driven  into 
the  field,  and  had  halted  a  few  yards  from  Yaldarno’s  drag. 
Astrardente  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  come  to  the  meet 
with  his  wife,  and  they  had  arrived  late.  Astrardente  always 
arrived  a  little  late,  on  principle.  As  Giovanni  and  Donna 
Tullia  came  back  to  their  drag,  they  suddenly  found  them¬ 
selves  face  to  face  with  the  Duchessa  and  her  husband.  It  did 
not  surprise  Corona  to  see  Giovanni  walking  with  the  woman 
he  did  not  intend  to  marry,  but  it  seemed  to  give  the  old  Duke 
undisguised  pleasure. 

“  Do  you  see.  Corona,  there  is  no  doubt  of  it!  It  is  just  as  I 
told  you,”  exclaimed  the  aged  dandy,  in  a  voice  so  audible  that 
Giovanni  frowned  and  Donna  Tullia  blushed  slightly.  Both 
of  them  bowed  as  they  passed  the  carriage.  Don  Giovanni 
looked  straight  into  Corona’s  face  as  he  took  off  his  hat.  He 
might  very  well  have  made  her  a  little  sign,  the  smallest  ges- 


36 


SARACINESCA. 


ture,  imperceptible  to  Donna  Tullia,  whereby  he  could  have 
given  her  the  idea  that  his  position  was  involuntary.  But  Don 
Giovanni  was  a  gentleman,  and  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind;  he 
bowed  and  looked  calmly  at  the  woman  he  loved  as  he  passed 
by.  Astrardente  watched  him  keenly,  and  as  he  noticed  the 
indifference  of  Saracinesca’s  look,  he  gave  a  curious  little  snuf¬ 
fling  snort  that  was  peculiar  to  him.  He  could  have  sworn  that 
neither  his  wife  nor  Giovanni  had  shown  the  smallest  interest 
in  each  other.  He  was  satisfied.  His  wife  was  above  suspi¬ 
cion,  as  he  always  said ;  but  he  was  an  old  man,  and  had  seen 
the  world,  and  he  knew  that  however  implicitly  he  might  trust 
the  noble  woman  who  had  sacrificed  her  youth  to  his  old  age, 
it  was  not  beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  she  might  be¬ 
come  innocently  interested,  even  unawares,  in  some  younger 
man — in  some  such  man  as  Giovanni  Saracinesca — and  he 
thought  it  worth  his  while  to  watch  her.  His  little  snort, 
however,  was  indicative  of  satisfaction.  Corona  had  not  winced 
at  the  mention  of  the  marriage,  and  had  nodded  with  the 
greatest  unconcern  to  the  man  as  he  passed. 

“ Ah,  Donna  Tullia !  ”  he  cried,  as  he  returned  their  greeting, 
“  you  are  preventing  Don  Giovanni  from  mounting ;  the  riders 
will  be  off  in  a  moment.” 

Being  thus  directly  addressed,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  stop  and  exchange  a  few  words.  The  Duchessa  was  on 
the  side  nearest  to  the  pair  as  they  passed,  and  her  hus¬ 
band  rose  and  sat  opposite  her,  so  as  to  talk  more  at  his  ease. 
There  were  renewed  greetings  on  both  sides,  and  Giovanni 
naturally  found  himself  talking  to  Corona,  while  her  husband 
and  Donna  Tullia  conversed  together. 

“  What  man  could  think  of  hunting  when  he  could  be  talk¬ 
ing  to  you  instead  ?  ”  said  old  Astrardente,  whose  painted  face 
adjusted  itself  in  a  sort  of  leer  that  had  once  been  a  winning 
smile.  Every  one  knew  he  painted,  his  teeth  were  a  miracle 
of  American  dentistry,  and  his  wig  had  deceived  a  great  por¬ 
trait-painter.  The  padding  in  his  clothes  was  disposed  with 
cunning  wisdom,  and  in  public  he  rarely  removed  the  gloves 
from  his  small  hands.  Donna  Tullia  laughed  at  what  he  said. 

“  You  should  teach  Don  Giovanni  to  make  pretty  speeches,” 
she  said.  “  He  is  as  surly  as  a  wolf  this  morning.” 

“  I  should  think  a  man  in  his  position  would  not  need  much 
teaching  in  order  to  be  gallant  to  you,”  replied  the  old  dandy, 
with  a  knowing  look.  Then  lowering  his  voice,  he  added  con¬ 
fidentially,  “  I  hope  that  before  very  long  I  may  be  allowed  to 
congrat - ” 

“  I  have  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  up  following  the  hounds 
to-day,”  interrupted  Donna  Tullia,  quickly.  She  spoke  loud 


SARACIUESCA. 


37 


enough  to  be  noticed  by  Corona.  “  He  is  coming  with  us  to 
picnic  at  the  Capannelle  instead.” 

Giovanni  could  not  help  glancing  quickly  at  Corona.  She 
smiled  faintly,  and  her  face  betrayed  no  emotion. 

“  I  daresay  it  will  be  “very  pleasant,”  she  said  gently,  looking 
far  out  over  the  Campagna.  In  the  next  field  the  pack  was 
moving  away,  followed  at  a  little  distance  by  a  score  of  riders 
in  pink ;  one  or  two  men  who  had  stayed  behind  in  conversa¬ 
tion,  mounted  hastily  and  rode  after  the  hunt;  some  of  the 
carriages  turned  out  of  the  field  and  began  to  follow  slowly 
along  the  road,  in  hopes  of  seeing  the  hounds  throw  off ;  the 
party  who  were  going  with  .Valdarno  gathered  about  the  drag, 
waiting  for  Donna  Tullia;  the  grooms  who  were  left  behind 
congregated  around  the  men  who  sold  boiled  beans  and  salad ; 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  meet  had  practically  dispersed. 

“  Why  will  you  not  join  us,  Duchessa  ?  ”  asked  Madame 
Mayer.  “  There  is  lunch  enough  for  everybody,  and  the  more 
people  we  are  the  pleasanter  it  will  be.”  Donna  Tullia  made 
her  suggestion  with  her  usual  frank  manner,  fixing  her  blue 
eyes  upon  Corona  as  she  spoke.  There  was  every  appearance 
of  cordiality  in  the  invitation;  but  Donna  Tullia  knew  well 
enough  that  there  was  a  sting  in  her  words,  or  at  all  events 
that  she  meant  there  should  be.  Corona,  however,  glanced 
quietly  at  her  husband,  and  then  courteously  refused. 

“  You  are  most  kind,”  she  said,  “  but  I  fear  we  cannot  join 
you  to-day.  We  are  very  regular  people,”  she  explained,  with 
a  slight  smile,  “  and  we  are  not  prepared  to  go  to-day.  Many 
thanks ;  I  wish  we  could  accept  your  kind  invitation.” 

“  Well,  I  am  sorry  you  will  not  come,”  said  Donna  Tullia, 
with  a  rather  hard  laugh.  “  We  mean  to  enjoy  ourselves 
immensely.” 

Giovanni  said  nothing.  There  was  only  one  thing  which 
could  have  rendered  the  prospect  of  Madame  Mayer’s  picnic 
more  disagreeable  to  him  than  it  already  was,  and  that  would 
have  been  the  presence  of  the  Duchessa.  He  knew  himself 
to  be  in  a  thoroughly  false  position  in  consequence  of  having 
yielded  to  Donna  Tullia’s  half-tearful  request  that  he  would 
join  the  party.  He  remembered  how  he  had  spoken  to  Corona 
on  the  previous  evening,  assuring  her  that  he  would  not  marry 
Madame  Meyer.  Corona  knew  nothing  of  the  change  his 
plans  had  undergone  during  the  stormy  interview  he  had  had 
with  his  father ;  he  longed,  indeed,  to  be  able  to  make  the 
Duchessa  understand,  but  any  attempt  at  explanation  would 
be  wholly  impossible.  Corona  would  think  he  was  inconsis¬ 
tent,  or  at  least  that  he  was  willing  to  flirt  with  the  gay  widow, 
while  determined  not  to  marry  her.  He  reflected  that  it  was 


38 


SARACINESCA. 


part  of  his  self-condemnation  that  he  should  appear  unfavour¬ 
ably  to  the  woman  he  loved,  and  whom  he  was  determined  to 
renounce;  but  he  realised  for  the  first  time  how  bitter  it  would 
be  to  stand  thus  always  in  the  appearance  of  weakness  and 
self-contradiction  in  the  eyes  of  the  only  human  being  whose 
good  opinion  he  coveted,  and  for  whose  dear  sake  he  was  will¬ 
ing  to  do  all  things.  As  he  stood  by  her,  his  hand  rested  upon 
the  side  of  the  carriage,  and  he  stared  blankly  at  the  distant 
hounds  and  the  retreating  riders. 

“  Come,  Don  Giovanni,  we  must  be  going,”  said  Donna 
Tullia.  “  What  in  the  world  are  you  thinking  of  ?  You  look 
as  though  you  had  been  turned  into  a  statue  !  ” 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,”  returned  Saracinesca,  suddenly  called 
back  from  the  absorbiug  train  of  his  unpleasant  thoughts. 
“  Good-bye,  Duchessa;  good-bye,  Astrardente — a  pleasant  drive 
to  you.” 

“  You  will  always  regret  not  having  come,  you  know,”  cried. 
Madame  Mayer,  shaking  hands  with  both  the  occupants  of  the 
carriage.  “  We  shall  probably  end  by  driving  to  Alban o,  and 
staying  all  night — just  fancy  !  Immense  fun — not  even  a 
comb  in  the  whole  party !  Good-bye.  I  suppose  we  shall  all 
meet  to-night — that  is,  if  we  ever  come  back  to  Rome  at  all. 
Come  along,  Giovanni,”  she  said,  familiarly  dropping  the  prefix 
from  his  name.  After  all,  he  was  a  sort  of  cousin,  and  people 
in  Rome  are  very  apt  to  call  each  other  by  their  Christian 
names.  But  Donna  Tullia  knew  what  she  was  about ;  she 
knew  that  Corona  d’Astrardente  could  never,  under  any  cir¬ 
cumstances  whatever,  call  Saracinesca  plain  “  Giovanni.”  But 
she  had  not  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  anything  she  said 
produced  any  change  in  Corona’s  proud  dark  face ;  she  seemed 
of  no  more  importance  in  the  Duchessa’s  eyes  than  if  she  had 
been  a  fly  buzzing  in  the  sunshine. 

So  Giovanni  and  Madame  Mayer  joined  their  noisy  party, 
and  began  to  climb  into  their  places  upon  the  drag ;  but  before 
they  were  prepared  to  start,  the  Astrardente  carriage  turned 
and  drove  rapidly  out  of  the  field.  The  laughter  and  loud 
talking  came  to  Corona’s  ears,  growing  fainter  and  more  dis¬ 
tant  every  second,  and  the  sound  was  very  cruel  to  her;  but 
she  set  her  strong  brave  lips  together,  and  leaned  back,  adjust¬ 
ing  the  blanket  over  her  old  husband’s  knees  with  one  hand, 
and  shading  the  sun  from  her  eyes  with  the  parasol  she  held 
in  the  other. 

“  Thank  you,  my  dear ;  you  are  an  angel  of  thoughtfulness,” 
said  the  old  dandy,  stroking  his  wife’s  hand.  “  What  a  singu¬ 
larly  vulgar  woman  Madame  Mayer  is  !  And  yet  she  has  a 
certain  little  chic  of  her  own.” 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


39 


Corona  did  not  withdraw  her  fingers  from  her  husband’s 
caress.  She  was  used  to  it.  After  all,  he  was  kind  to  her 
in  his  way.  It  would  have  been  absurd  to  have  been  jealous 
of  the  grossly  flattering  speeches  he  made  to  other  women; 
and  indeed  he  was  as  fond  of  turning  compliments  to  his  wife 
as  to  any  one.  It  was  a  singular  relation  that  had  grown  up 
between  the  old  man  and  the  young  girl  he  had  married.  Had 
he  been  less  thoroughly  a  man  of  the  world,  or  had  Corona 
been  less  entirely  honest  and  loyal  and  self-sacrificing,  there 
would  have  been  small  peace  in  their  wedlock.  But  Astrar- 
dente,  decayed  roue  and  worn-out  dandy  as  he  was,  was  in  love 
with  his  wife ;  and  she,  in  all  the  young  magnificence  of  her 
beauty,  submitted  to  be  loved  by  him,  because  she  had  pro¬ 
mised  that  she  would  do  so,  and  because,  having  sworn,  she 
regarded  the  breaking  of  her  faith  by  the  smallest  act  of 
unkindness  as  a  thing  beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility.  It 
had  been  a  terrible  blow  to  her  to  discover  that  she  cared  for 
Don  Giovanni  even  in  the  way  she  believed  she  did,  as  a  man 
whose  society  she  preferred  to  that  of  other  men,  and  whose 
face  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  see.  She,  too,  had  spent  a  sleepless 
night;  and  when  she  had  risen  in  the  morning,  she  had  deter¬ 
mined  to  forget  Giovanni,  and  if  she  could  not  forget  him,  she 
had  sworn  that  more  than  ever  she  would  be  all  things  to  her 
husband. 

She  wondered  now,  as  Giovanni  had  known  she  would,  why 
he  had  suddenly  thrown  over  his  day’s  hunting  in  order  to 
spend  his  time  with  Donna  Tullia;  but  she  would  not  acknow- 
ledge,  even  to  herself,  that  the  dull  pain  she  felt  near  her  heart, 
and  that  seemed  to  oppress  her  breathing,  bore  any  relation  to 
the  scene  she  had  just  witnessed.  She  shut  her  lips  tightly, 
and  arranged  the  blanket  for  her  husband. 

“  Madame  Mayer  is  vulgar,”  she  answered.  “  I  suppose  she 
cannot  help  it.” 

“  Women  can  always  help  being  vulgar,”  returned  Astrar- 
dente.  “  I  believe  she  learned  it  from  her  husband.  Women 
are  not  naturally  like  that.  Nevertheless  she  is  an  excellent 
match  for  Giovanni  Saracinesca.  Bich,  by  millions.  Undeni¬ 
ably  handsome,  gay — well,  rather  too  gay;  but  Giovanni  is  so 
serious  that  the  contrast  will  be  to  their  mutual  advantage.” 

Corona  was  silent.  There  was  nothing  the  old  man  disliked 
so  much  as  silence. 

“  Why  do  you  not  answer  me  ?  ”  he  asked,  rather  petulantly. 

“  I  do  not  know — I  was  thinking,”  said  Corona,  simply.  “  I 
do  not  see  that  it  is  a  great  match  after  all,  for  the  last  of  the 
Saracinesca.” 

“  You  think  she  will  lead  him  a  terrible  dance,  I  daresay,” 


40 


SARACLN'ESCA. 


returned  the  old  man.  “She  is  gay — very  gay;  and  Giovanni 
is  very,  very  solemn.” 

“  I  did  not  mean  that  she  was  too  gay.  I  only  think  that 
Saracinesca  might  marry,  for  instance,  the  Rocca  girl.  Why 
should  he  take  a  widow  ?  ” 

“  Such  a  young  widow.  Old  Mayer  was  as  decrepit  as  any 
old  statue  in  a  museum.  He  was  paralysed  in  one  arm,  and 
gouty — gouty,  my  dear;  you  do  not  know  how  gouty  he  was.” 
The  old  fellow  grinned  scornfully;  he  had  never  had  the  gout. 
“  Donna  Tullia  is  a  very  young  widow.  Besides,  think  of  the 
fortune.  It  w’ould  break  old  Saracinesca’s  heart  to  let  so  much 
money  go  out  of  the  family.  He  is  a  miserly  old  wretch, 
Saracinesca !  ” 

“  I  never  heard  that,”  said  Corona. 

“  Oh,  there  are  many  things  in  Rome  that  one  never  hears,  and 
that  is  one  of  them.  I  hate  avarice — it  is  so  extremely  vulgar.” 

Indeed  Astrardente  was  not  himself  avaricious,  though  he 
had  all  his  life  known  how  to  protect  his  interests.  He  loved 
money,  but  he  loved  also  to  spend  it,  especially  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  a  great  show  with  it.  It  was  not  true,  however, 
that  Saracinesca  was  miserly.  He  spent  a  large  income  without 
the  smallest  ostentation. 

“  Really,  I  should  hardly  call  Prince  Saracinesca  a  miser,” 
said  Corona.  “  I  cannot  imagine,  from  what  I  know  of  him, 
why  he  should  be  so  anxious  to  get  Madame  Mayer’s  fortune; 
but  I  do  not  think  it  is  out  of  mere  greediness.” 

“  Then  I  do  not  know  what  you  can  call  it,”  returned  her 
husband,  sharply.  “  They  have  always  had  that  dismal  black 
melancholy  in  that  family — that  detestable  love  of  secretly 
piling  up  money,  while  their  faces  are  as  grave  and  sour  as  any 
Jew’s  in  the  Ghetto.” 

Corona  glanced  at  her  husband,  and  smiled  faintly  as  she 
looked  at  his  thin  old  features,  where  the  lights  and  shadows 
were  touched  in  with  delicate  colour  more  artfully  than  any 
actress’s,  superficially  concealing  the  lines  traced  by  years  of 
affectation  and  refined  egotism ;  and  she  thought  of  Giovanni’s 
strong  manly  face,  passionate  indeed,  but  noble  and  bold.  A 
moment  later  she  resolutely  put  the  comparison  out  of  her 
mind,  and  finding  that  her  husband  was  inclined  to  abuse  the 
Saracinesca,  she  tried  to  turn  the  conversation. 

“  I  suppose  it  will  be  a  great  ball  at  the  Frangipani’s,”  she 
said.  “  We  will  go,  of  course  ?”  she  added,  interrogatively. 

“  Of  course.  I  would  not  miss  it  for  all  the  world.  There 
has  not  been  such  a  ball  for  years  as  that  will  be.  Do  I  ever 
miss  an  opportunity  of  enjoying  myself — I  mean,  of  letting 
you  enjoy  yourself  ?  ” 


SARACINESCA. 


41 


“  No,  you  are  very  good,”  said  Corona,  gently.  “  Indeed  I 
sometimes  think  you  give  yourself  trouble  about  going  out  on 
my  account.  Really,  I  am  not  so  greedy  of  society.  I  would 
often  gladly  stay  at  home  if  you  wished  it.” 

“  Do  you  think  I  am  past  enjoying  the  world,  then  ?  ”  asked 
the  old  man,  sourly. 

“  No  indeed,”  ‘replied  Corona,  patiently.  “  Why  should  I 
think  that  ?  I  see  how  much  you  like  going  out.” 

“  Of  course  I  like  it.  A  rational  man  in  the  prime  of  life 
always  likes  to  see  his  fellow-creatures.  Why  should  not  I  ?  ” 

The  Duchessa  did  not  smile.  She  was  used  to  hearing  her 
aged  husband  speak  of  himself  as  young.  It  was  a  harmless 
fancy. 

“  I  think  it  is  quite  natural,”  she  said. 

“  What  I  cannot  understand,”  said  Astrardente,  muffling  his 
thin  throat  more  closely  against  the  keen  bright  tramontana 
wind,  “  is  that  such  old  fellows  as  Saracinesca  should  still  want 
to  play  a  part  in  the  world.” 

Saracinesca  was  younger  than  Astrardente,  and  his  iron  con¬ 
stitution  bade  fair  to  outlast  another  generation,  in  spite  of  his 
white  hair. 

“  You  do  not  seem  to  be  in  a  good  humour  with  Saracinesca 
to-day,”  remarked  Corona,  by  way  of  answer. 

“  Why  do  you  defend  him?”  asked  her  husband,  in  a  new 
fit  of  irritation.  “  He  jars  on  my  nerves,  the  sour  old  crea¬ 
ture  !  ” 

“  I  fancy  all  Rome  will  go  to  the  Frangipani  ball,”  began 
Corona  again,  without  heeding  the  old  man’s  petulance. 

“  You  seem  to  be  interested  in  it,”  returned  Astrardente. 

Corona  was  silent;  it  was  her  only  weapon  when  he 
became  petulant.  He  hated  silence,  and  generally  returned 
to  the  conversation  with  more  suavity.  Perhaps,  in  his  great 
experience,  he  really  appreciated  his  wife’s  wonderful  patience 
with  his  moods,  and  it  is  certain  that  he  was  exceedingly  fond 
of  her. 

“  You  must  have  a  new  gown,  my  dear,”  he  said  presently, 
in  a  conciliatory  tone. 

His  wife  passed  for  the  best-dressed  woman  in  Rome,  as  she 
was  undeniably  the  most  remarkable  in  many  other  ways.  She 
was  not  above  taking  an  interest  in  dress,  and  her  old  husband 
had  an  admirable  taste ;  moreover,  he  took  a  vast  pride  in  her 
appearance,  and  if  she  had  looked  a  whit  less  superior  to  other 
women,  his  smiling  boast  that  she  was  above  suspicion  would 
have  lost  some  of  its  force. 

“ I  hardly  think  it  is  necessary,”  said  Corona;  “I  have  so 
man}7  things,  and  it  will  be  a  great  crowd.” 


42 


SARACINESCA. 


“My  dear,  be  economical  of  your  beauty,  but  not  in  your 
adornment  of  it,”  said  the  old  man,  with  one  of  his  engaging 
grins.  “  I  desire  that  you  have  a  new  gown  for  this  ball  which 
will  be  remembered  by  every  one  who  goes  to  it.  You  must 
set  about  it  at  once.” 

“Well,  that  is  an  easy  request  for  any  woman  to  grant,” 
answered  Corona,  with  a  little  laugh;  “though  I  do  not  believe 
my  gown  will  be  remembered  so  long  as  you  think.” 

“  Who  knows — who  knows  ?  ”  said  Astrardente,  thoughtfully. 
“I  remember  gowns  I  saw”' — he  checked  himself — “why,  as 
many  as  ten  years  ago  !  ”  he  added,  laughing  in  his  turn,  per¬ 
haps  at  nearly  having  said  forty  for  ten.  “  Gowns,  my  dear,” 
he  continued,  “  make  a  profound  impression  upon  men’s  minds.” 

“For  the  matter  of  that,”  said  the  Duchessa,  “I  do  not  care 
to  impress  men  at  all,  nor  women  either.”  She  spoke  lightly, 
pleased  that  the  conversation  should  have  taken  a  more 
pleasant  turn. 

“  Not  even  to  impress  me,  my  dear  ?  ”  asked  old  Astrardente, 
with  a  leer. 

“  That  is  different,”  answered  Corona,  quietly. 

So  they  talked  upon  the  subject  of  the  gown  and  the  ball 
until  the  carriage  rolled  under  the  archway  of  the  Astrardente 
palace.  But  when  it  was  three  o’clock,  and  Corona  was  at 
liberty  to  go  out  upon  her  usual  round  of  visits,  she  was  glad 
that  she  could  go  alone;  and  as  she  sat  among  her  cushions, 
driving  from  house  to  house  and  distributing  cards,  she  had 
time  to  think  seriously  of  her  situation.  It  would  seem  a  light 
thing  to  most  wives  of  aged  husbands  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to 
a  man  such  as  Giovanni  Saracinesca.  But  the  more  Corona 
thought  of  it,  the  more  certain  it  appeared  to  her  that  she  was 
committing  a  great  sin.  It  weighed  heavily  upon  her  mind, 
and  took  from  her  the  innocent  pleasure  she  was  wont  to  feel 
in  driving  in  the  bright  evening  air  in  the  Villa  Borghese.  It 
took  the  colour  from  the  sky,  and  the  softness  from  the  cushions; 
it  haunted  her  and  made  her  miserably  unhappy.  At  every 
turn  she  expected  to  see  Giovanni’s  figure  and  face,  and  the 
constant  recurrence  of  the  thought  seemed  to  add  magnitude 
to  the  crime  of  which  she  accused  herself, — the  crime  of  even 
thinking  of  any  man  save  her  old  husband — of  wishing  that 
Giovanni  might  not  marry  Donna  Tullia  after  all. 

“  I  will  go  to  Padre  Filippo,”  she  said  to  herself  as  she 
reached  home. 


SARACISTESCA. 


43 


CHAPTER  V. 

Valdarno  took  Donna  Tullia  by  his  side  upon  the  front  seat 
of  the  drag;  and  as  luck  would  have  it,  Giovanni  and  Del 
Ferice  sat  together  behind  them.  Half-a-dozen  other  men 
found  seats  somewhere,  and  among  them  were  the  melancholy 
Spicca,  who  was  a  famous  duellist,  and  a  certain  Casalverde,  a 
man  of  rather  doubtful  reputation.  The  others  were  members 
of  what  Donna  Tullia  called  her  “  corps  de  ballet.”  In  those 
days  Donna  Tullia’s  conduct  was  criticised,  and  she  was  thought 
to  be  emancipated,  as  the  phrase  went.  Old  people  opened 
their  eyes  at  the  spectacle  of  the  gay  young  widow  going  off: 
into  the  Campagna  to  picnic  with  a  party  of  men;  but  if  any 
intimate  enemy  had  ventured  to  observe  to  her  that  she  was 
giving  occasion  for  gossip,  she  would  have  raised  her  eyebrows, 
explaining  that  they  were  all  just  like  her  brothers,  and  that 
Giovanni  was  indeed  a  sort  of  cousin.  She  would  perhaps  have 
condescended  to  say  that  she  would  not  have  done  such  a  thing 
in  Paris,  but  that  in  dear  old  Rome  one  was  in  the  bosom  of 
one’s  family,  and  might  do  anything.  At  present  she  sat 
chatting  with  Valdarno,  a  tall  and  fair  young  man,  with  a 
weak  mouth  and  a  good-natured  disposition:  she  had  secured 
Giovanni,  and  though  he  sat  sullenly  smoking  behind  her,  his 
presence  gave  her  satisfaction.  Del  Ferice’s  smooth  face  wore 
an  expression  of  ineffable  calm,  and  his  watery  blue  eyes  gazed 
languidly  on  the  broad  stretch  of  brown  grass  which  bordered 
the  highroad. 

For  some  time  the  drag  bowled  along,  and  Giovanni  was  left 
to  his  own  reflections,  which  were  not  of  a  very  pleasing  kind. 
The  other  men  talked  of  the  chances  of  luck  with  the  hounds; 
and  Spicca,  who  had  been  a  great  deal  in  England,  occasionally 
put  in  a  remark  not  very  complimentary  to  the  Roman  hunt. 
Del  Ferice  listened  in  silence,  and  Giovanni  did  not  listen  at 
all,  but  buttoned  his  overcoat  to  the  throat,  half  closed  his 
eyes,  and  smoked  one  cigarette  after  another,  leaning  back  in 
his  seat.  Suddenly  Donna  Tullia’s  laugh  was  heard  as  she 
turned  half  round  to  look  at  Valdarno. 

“Do  you  really  think  so  ?”  she  cried.  “How  soon  ?  What 
a  dance  we  will  lead  them  then  !  ” 

Del  Ferice  pricked  his  ears  in  the  direction  of  her  voice,  like 
a  terrier  that  suspects  the  presence  of  a  rat.  Valdarno’s  answer 
was  inaudible,  but  Donna  Tullia  ceased  laughing  immediately. 

“  They  are  talking  politics,”  said  Del  Ferice  in  a  low  voice, 
leaning  towards  Giovanni  as  he  spoke.  The  latter  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  went  on  smoking.  He  did  not  care  to  be 
drawn  into  a  conversation  with  Del  Ferice. 


44 


SARACIKESCA. 


Del  Ferice  was  a  man  who  was  suspected  of  revolutionary 
sympathies  by  the  authorities  in  Rome,  but  who  w^as  not 
feared.  He  was  therefore  allowed  to  live  his  life  much  as  he 
pleased,  though  he  was  conscious  from  time  to  time  that  he 
was  watched.  Being  a  man,  however,  who  under  all  circum¬ 
stances  pursued  his  own  interests  with  more  attention  than  he 
bestowed  on  those  of  any  party,  he  did  not  pretend  to  attach 
any  importance  to  the  distinction  of  being  occasionally  followed 
by  a  spy,  as  a  more  foolish  man  might  have  done.  If  he  was 
watched,  he  did  not  care  to  exhibit  himself  to  his  friends  as  a 
martyr,  to  tell  stories  of  the  sbirro  who  sometimes  dogged  his 
footsteps,  nor  to  cry  aloud  that  he  was  unjustly  persecuted. 
He  affected  a  character  above  suspicion,  and  rarely  allowed 
himself  to  express  an  opinion.  He  was  no  propagator  of  new 
doctrines;  that  was  too  dangerous  a  trade  for  one  of  his  temper. 
But  he  foresaw  changes  to  come,  and  he  determined  that  he 
would  profit  by  them.  He  had  little  to  lose,  but  he  had  every¬ 
thing  to  gain;  and  being  a  patient  man,  he  resolved  to  gain  all 
he  could  by  circumspection — in-other  words,  by  acting  accord¬ 
ing  to  his  nature,  rather  than  by  risking  himself  in  a  bold 
course  of  action  for  which  he  was  wholly  unsuited.  He  was 
too  wise  to  attempt  wholly  to  deceive  the  authorities,  knowing 
well  that  they  were  not  easily  deceived;  and  he  accordingly 
steered  a  middle  course,  constantly  speaking  in  favour  of 
progress,  of  popular  education,  and  of  freedom  of  the  press, 
but  at  the  same  time  loudly  proclaiming  that  all  these  things 
— that  every  benefit  of  civilisation,  in  fact — could  be  obtained 
without  the  slightest  change  in  the  form  of  government.  He 
thus  asserted  his  loyalty  to  the  temporal  power  while  affecting 
a  belief  in  the  possibility  of  useful  reforms,  and  the  position  he 
thus  acquired  exactly  suited  his  own  ends;  for  he  attracted  to 
himself  a  certain  amount  of  suspicion  on  account  of  his  pro¬ 
gressist  professions,  and  then  disarmed  that  suspicion  by 
exhibiting  a  serene  indifference  to  the  espionage  of  which  he 
was  the  object.  The  consequence  was,  that  at  the  very  time 
when  he  was  most  deeply  implicated  in  much  more  serious 
matters — of  which  the  object  was  invariably  his  own  ultimate 
profit — at  the  time  when  he  was  receiving  money  for  informa¬ 
tion  he  was  able  to  obtain  through  his  social  position,  he  was 
regarded  by  the  authorities,  and  by  most  of  his  acquaintances, 
as  a  harmless  man,  who  might  indeed  injure  himself  by  his 
foolish  doctrines  of  progress,  but  who  certainly  could  not 
injure  any  one  else.  Few  guessed  that  his  zealous  attention  to 
social  duties,  his  occasional  bursts  of  enthusiasm  for  liberal 
education  and  a  free  press,  were  but  parts  of  his  machinery  for 
making  money  out  of  politics.  He  was  so  modest,  so  unosten- 


SARACINESCA. 


45 


tatious,  that  no  one  suspected  that  the  mainspring  of  his 
existence  was  the  desire  for  money. 

But,  like  many  intelligent  and  bad  men,  Del  Ferice  had  a 
weakness  which  was  gradually  gaining  upon  him  and  growing 
in  force,  and  which  was  destined  to  hasten  the  course  of  the 
events  which  he  had  planned  for  himself.  It  is  an  extraor¬ 
dinary  peculiarity  in  unbelievers  that  they  are  often  more  sub¬ 
ject  to  petty  superstitions  than  other  men;  and  similarly,  it 
often  happens  that  the  most  cynical  and  coldly  calculating  of 
conspirators,  who  believe  themselves  proof  against  all  outward 
influences,  yield  to  some  feeling  of  nervous  dislike  for  an  in¬ 
dividual  who  has  never  harmed  them,  and  are  led  on  from  dis¬ 
like  to  hatred,  until  their  soberest  actions  take  colour  from 
what  in  its  earliest  beginnings  was  nothing  more  than  a  sense¬ 
less  prejudice.  Del  Ferice's  weakness  was  his  unaccountable 
detestation  of  Giovanni  Saracinesca  ;  and  he  had  so  far  suf¬ 
fered  this  abhorrence  of  the  man  to  dominate  his  existence, 
that  it  had  come  to  be  one  of  his  chiefest  delights  in  life  to 
thwart  Giovanni  wherever  he  could.  How  it  had  begun,  or 
when,  he  no  longer  knew  nor  cared.  He  had  perhaps  thought 
Giovanni  treated  him  superciliously,  or  even  despised  him  ; 
and  his  antagonism  being  roused  by  some  fancied  slight,  he 
had  shown  a  petty  resentment,  which,  again,  Saracinesca  had 
treated  with  cold  indifference.  Little  by  little  his  fancied 
grievance  had  acquired  great  proportions  in  his  own  estima¬ 
tion,  and  he  had  learned  to  hate  Giovanni  more  than  any  man 
living.  At  first  it  might  have  seemed  an  easy  matter  to  ruin 
his  adversary,  or,  at  all  events,  to  cause  him  great  and  serious 
injury  ;  and  but  for  that  very  indifference  which  Del  Ferice  so 
resented,  his  attempts  might  have  been  successful. 

Giovanni  belonged  to  a  family  who  from  the  earliest  times 
had  been  at  swords-drawn  with  the  Government.  Their  prop¬ 
erty  had  been  more  than  once  confiscated  by  the  popes,  had 
been  seized  again  by  force  of  arms,  and  had  been  ultimately 
left  to  them  for  the  mere  sake  of  peace.  They  seem  to  have 
quarrelled  with  everybody  on  every  conceivable  pretext,  and  to 
have  generally  got  the  best  of  the  struggle.  No  pope  had  ever 
reckoned  upon  the  friendship  of  Casa  Saracinesca.  For  genera¬ 
tions  they  had  headed  the  opposition  whenever  there  was  one, 
and  had  plotted  to  form  one  when  there  was  none  ready  to 
their  hands.  It  seemed  to  Del  Ferice  that  in  the  stirring  times 
that  followed  the  annexation  of  Naples  to  the  Italian  crown, 
when  all  Europe  was  watching  the  growth  of  the  new  Power, 
it  should  be  an  easy  matter  to  draw  a  Saracinesca  into  any 
scheme  for  the  subversion  of  a  Government  against  which  so 
many  generations  of  Saracinesca  had  plotted  and  fought.  To 


46 


SARACINESCA. 


involve  Giovanni  in  some  Liberal  conspiracy,  and  then  by 
betraying  him  to  cause  him  to  be  imprisoned  or  exiled  from 
Lome,  was  a  plan  which  pleased  Del  Ferice,  and  which  he 
desired  earnestly  to  put  into  execution.  He  had  often  tried  to 
lead  his  enemy  into  conversation,  repressing  and  hiding  his 
dislike  for  the  sake  of  his  end  ;  but  at  the  first  mention  of 
political  subjects  Giovanni  became  impenetrable,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  assumed  an  air  of  the  utmost  indifference.  No 
paradox  could  draw  him  into  argument,  no  flattery  could  loose 
his  tongue.  Indeed  those  were  times  when  men  hesitated  to 
express  an  opinion,  not  only  because  any  opinion  they  might 
express  was  liable  to  be  exaggerated  and  distorted  by  willing 
enemies — a  consideration  which  would  not  have  greatly  intimi¬ 
dated  Giovanni  Saracinesca — but  also  because  it  was  impossi¬ 
ble  for  the  wisest  man  to  form  any  satisfactory  judgment  upon 
the  course  of  events.  It  was  clear  to  every  one  that  ever  since 
1848  the  temporal  power  had  been  sustained  by  France;  and 
though  no  one  in  1865  foresaw  the  downfall  of  the  Second 
Empire,  no  one  saw  any  reason  for  supposing  that  the  military 
protectorate  of  Louis  Napoleon  in  Rome  could  last  for  ever: 
what  would  be  likely  to  occur  if  that  protection  were  with¬ 
drawn  was  indeed  a  matter  of  doubt,  but  was  not  looked  upon 
by  the  Government  as  a  legitimate  matter  for  speculation. 

Del  Ferice,  however,  did  not  desist  from  his  attempts  to 
make  Giovanni  speak  out  his  mind,  and  whenever  an  opportu¬ 
nity  offered,  tried  to  draw  him  into  conversation.  He  was 
destined  on  the  present  occasion  to  meet  with  greater  success 
than  had  hitherto  attended  his  efforts.  The  picnic  was  noisy, 
and  Giovanni  was  in  a  bad  humour;  he  did  not  care  for  Donna 
Tullia’s  glances,  nor  for  the  remarks  she  constantly  levelled  at 
him ;  still  less  was  he  amused  by  the  shallow  gaiety  of  her  party 
of  admirers,  tempered  as  their  talk  was  by  the  occasional  tonic 
of  some  outrageous  cynicism  from  the  melancholy  Spicca. 
Del  Ferice  smiled,  and  talked,  and  smiled  again,  seeking  to 
flatter  and  please  Donna  Tullia,  as  was  his  wont.  By-and-by 
the  clear  north  wind  and  the  bright  sun  dried  the  ground,  and 
Madame  Mayer  proposed  that  the  party  should  walk  a  little 
on  the  road  towards  Rome — a  proposal  of  such  startling  origi¬ 
nality  that  it  was  carried  by  acclamation.  Donna  Tullia  wanted 
to  walk  with  Giovanni  ;  but  on  pretence  of  having  left  some¬ 
thing  upon  the  drag,  he  gave  Valdarno  time  to  take  his  place. 
When  Giovanni  began  to  follow  the  rest:,  he  found  that  Del 
Ferice  had  lagged  behind,  and  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him. 

Giovanni  was  in  a  bad  humour  that  day.  He  had  suffered 
himself  to  be  persuaded  into  joining  in  a  species  of  amusement 
for  which  he  cared  nothing,  by  a  mere  word  from  a  woman  for 


SARACINESCA. 


47 


whom  he  cared  less,  but  whom  he  had  half  determined  to 
marry,  and  who  had  wholly  determined  to  marry  him.  He, 
who  hated  vacillation,  had  been  dangling  for  four-and-twenty 
hours  like  a  pendulum,  or,  as  he  said  to  himself,  like  an  ass 
between  two  bundles  of  hay.  At  one  moment  he  meant  to 
marry  Donna  Tullia,  and  at  anothor  he  loathed  the  thought; 
now  he  felt  that  he  would  make  any  sacrifice  to  rid  the 
Duchessa  d’Astrardente  of  himself,  and  now  again  he  felt  how 
futile  such  a  sacrifice  would  be.  He  was  ashamed  in  his  heart, 
for  he  was  no  boy  of  twenty  to  be  swayed  by  a  woman’s  look 
or  a  fit  of  Quixotism;  he  was  a  strong  grown  man  who  had 
seen  the  world.  He  had  been  in  the  habit  of  supposing  his 
impulses  to  be  good,  and  of  following  them  naturally  without 
much  thought;  it  seemed  desperately  perplexing  to  be  forced 
into  an  analysis  of  those  impulses  in  order  to  decide  what  he 
should  do.  He  was  in  a  thoroughly  bad  humour,  and  Del 
Ferice  guessed  that  if  Giovanni  could  ever  be  induced  to  speak 
out,  it  must  be  when  his  temper  was  not  under  control.  In 
Rome,  in  the  club — there  was  only  one  club  in  those  days — in 
society,  ITgo  never  got  a  chance  to  talk  to  his  enemy;  but  here 
upon  the  Appian  Way,  with  the  broad  Campagna  stretching 
away  to  right  and  left  and  rear,  while  the  remainder  of  the 
party  walked  three  hundred  yards  in  front,  and  Giovanni 
showed  an  evident  reluctance  to  join  them,  it  would  go  hard 
indeed  if  he  could  not  be  led  into  conversation. 

“  I  should  think,”  Del  Ferice  began,  “  that  if  you  had  your 
choice,  you  would  walk  anywhere  rather  than  here.” 

“  Why?”  asked  Giovanni,  carelessly.  “  It  is  a  very  good  road.” 

“  I  should  think  that  our  Roman  Campagna  would  be  any¬ 
thing  but  a  source  of  satisfaction  to  its  possessors — like  your¬ 
self,”  answered  Del  Ferice. 

“  It  is  a  very  good  grazing  ground.” 

“  It  might  be  something  better.  When  one  thinks  that  in 
ancient  times  it  was  a  vast  series  of  villas - ” 

“  The  conditions  were  very  different.  We  do  not  live  in 
ancient  times,”  returned  Giovanni,  drily. 

“  Ah,  the  conditions !  ”  ejaculated  Del  Ferice,  with  a  suave 
sigh.  “  Surely  the  conditions  depend  on  man — not  on  nature. 
What  our  proud  forefathers  accomplished  by  law  and  energy, 
we  could,  we  can  accomplish,  if  we  restore  law  and  energy  in 
our  midst.” 

“  You  are  entirely  mistaken,”  answered  Saracinesca.  “  It 
would  take  five  times  the  energy  of  the  ancient  Romans  to  turn 
the  Campagna  into  a  garden,  or  even  into  a  fertile  productive 
region.  No  one  is  five  times  as  energetic  as  the  ancients.  As 
for  the  laws,  they  do  well  enough.” 


48 


SABACINESCA. 


Del  Ferice  was  delighted.  For  the  first  time,  Giovanni 
seemed  inclined  to  enter  upon  an  argument  with  him. 

“  Why  are  the  conditions  so  different  ?  I  do  not  see.  Here 
is  the  same  undulating  country,  the  same  climate - •” 

“And  twice  as  much  water,”  interrupted  Giovanni.  “You 
forget  that  the  Campagna  is  very  low,  and  that  the  rivers  in  it 
have  risen  very  much.  There  are  parts  of  ancient  Rome  now 
laid  bare  which  lie  below  the  present  water-mark  of  the  Tiber. 
If  the  city  were  built  upon  its  old  level,  much  of  it  would  be 
constantly  flooded.  The  rivers  have  risen  and  have  swamped 
the  country.  Do  you  think  any  amount  of  law  or  energy  could 
drain  this  fever-stricken  plain  into  the  sea?  I  do  not.  Do 
you  think  that  if  I  could  be  persuaded  that  the  land  could  be 
improved  into  fertility  I  would  hesitate,  at  any  expenditure  in 
my  power,  to  reclaim  the  miles  of  desert  my  father  and  I  own 
here  ?  The  plain  is  a  series  of  swamps  and  stone  quarries.  In 
one  place  you  find  the  rock  a  foot  below  the  surface,  and  the 
soil  burns  up  in  summer;  a  hundred  yards  farther  you  find  a 
bog  hundreds  of  feet  deep,  which  even  in  summer  is  never 
dry.” 

“  But,”  suggested  Del  Ferice,  who  listened  patiently  enough, 
“supposing  the  Government  passed  a  law  forcing  all  of  you 
proprietors  to  plant  trees  and  dig  ditches,  it  would  have  some 
effect.” 

“  The  law  cannot  force  us  to  sacrifice  men’s  lives.  The 
Trappist  monks  at  the  Tre  Fontane  are  trying  it,  and  dying  by 
scores.  Do  you  think  I,  or  any  other  Roman,  would  send 
peasants  to  such  a  place,  or  could  induce  them  to  go  ?  ” 

“  Well,  it  is  one  of  a  great  many  questions  which  will  be 
settled  some  day,”  said  Del  Ferice.  “  You  will  not  deny  that 
there  is  room  for  much  improvement  in  our  country,  and  that 
an  infusion  of  some  progressist  ideas  would  be  wholesome.” 

“Perhaps  so;  but  you  understand  one  thing  by  progress,  and 
I  understand  quite  another,”  replied  Giovanni,  eyeing  in  the 
bright  distance  the  figures  of  Donna  Tullia  and  her  friends, 
and  regulating  his  pace  so  as  not  to  lessen  the  distance  which 
separated  them  from  him.  He  preferred  talking  political 
economy  with  a  man  he  disliked,  to  being  obliged  to  make  con¬ 
versation  for  Madame  Mayer. 

“  I  mean  by  progress,  positive  improvement  without  revolu¬ 
tionary  change,”  explained  Del  Ferice,  using  the  phrase  he 
had  long  since  constructed  as  his  profession  of  faith  to  the 
world.  Giovanni  eyed  him  keenly  for  a  moment.  He  cared 
nothing  for  Ugo  or  his  ideas,  but  he  suspected  him  of  very 
different  principles. 

“You  will  pardon  me,”  he  said,  civilly,  “if  I  venture  to 


SARACINESCA. 


49 


doubt  whether  you  have  frankly  expressed  your  views.  I  am 
under  the  impression  that  you  really  connect  the  idea  of  im¬ 
provement  with  a  very  positive  revolutionary  change.” 

Del  Ferice  did  not  wince,  hut  he  involuntarily  cast  a  glance 
behind  him.  Those  were  times  when  people  were  cautious  of 
being  overheard.  But  Del  Ferice  knew  his  man,  and  he  knew 
that  the  only  way  in  which  he  could  continue  the  interview 
was  to  accept  the  imputation  as  though  trusting  implicitly  to 
the  discretion  of  his  companion. 

“  Will  you  give  me  a  fair  answer  to  a  fair  question  ?  ”  he 
asked,  very  gravely. 

“Let  me  hear  the  question,”  returned  Giovanni,  indiffer¬ 
ently.  He  also  knew  his  man,  and  attached  no  more  belief  to 
anything  he  said  than  to  the  chattering  of  a  parrot.  And  yet 
Del  Ferice  had  not  the  reputation  of  a  liar  in  the  world  at  large. 

“  Certainly,”  answered  Ugo.  “  You  are  the  heir  of  a  family 
which  from  immemorial  time  has  opposed  the  popes.  You 
cannot  be  supposed  to  feel  any  kind  of  loyal  attachment  to  the 
temporal  power.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  individually 
would  support  it  or  not.  But  frankly,  how  would  you  regard 
such  a  revolutionary  change  as  you  suspect  me  of  desiring?” 

“  I  have  no  objection  to  telling  you  that.  I  would  simply 
make  the  best  of  it.” 

Del  Ferice  laughed  at  the  ambiguous  answer,  affecting  to 
consider  it  as  a  mere  evasion. 

“We  should  all  try  to  do  that,”  he  answered;  “but  what  I 
mean  to  ask  is,  whether  you  would  personally  take  up  arms  to 
fight  for  the  temporal  power,  or  whether  you  would  allow 
events  to  take  their  course  ?  I  fancy  that  would  be  the  ulti¬ 
mate  test  of  loyalty.” 

“  My  instinct  would  certainly  be  to  fight,  whether  fighting 
were  of  any  use  or  not.  But  the  propriety  of  fighting  in  such 
a  case  is  a  very  nice  question  of  judgment.  So  long  as  there  is 
anything  to  fight  for,  no  matter  how  hopeless  the  odds,  a  gen¬ 
tleman  should  go  to  the  front — but  no  longer.  The  question 
must  be  to  decide  the  precise  point  at  which  the  position  be¬ 
comes  untenable.  So  long  as  France  makes  our  quarrels  hers, 
every  man  should  give  his  personal  assistance  to  the  cause;  but 
it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  if  we  were  left  alone,  a  handful  of 
Romans  against  a  great  Power,  we  could  do  more,  or  should  do 
more,  than  make  a  formal  show  of  resistance.  It  has  been  a 
rule  in  all  ages  that  a  general,  however  brave,  who  sacrifices 
the  lives  of  his  soldiers  in  a  perfectly  hopeless  resistance,  rather 
than  accept  the  terms  of  an  honourable  capitulation,  is  guilty 
of  a  military  crime.” 

“In  other  words,”  answered  Del  Ferice,  quietly,  “if  the 


50 


SARACINESCA. 


French  troops  were  withdrawn,  and  the  Italians  were  besieging 
Rome,  you  would  at  once  capitulate  ?  ” 

“  Certainly — after  making  a  formal  protest.  It  would  be 
criminal  to  sacrifice  our  fellow-citizens’  lives  in  such  a  case.” 

“  And  then  ?” 

“  Then,  as  I  said  before,  I  would  make  the  best  of  it— not 
omitting  to  congratulate  Del  Ferice  upon  obtaining  a  post  in 
the  new  Government,”  added  Giovanni,  with  a  laugh. 

But  Del  Ferice  took  no  notice  of  the  jest. 

“  Do  you  not  think  that,  aside  from  any  question  of  sympa¬ 
thy  or  loyalty  to  the  holy  Father,  the  change  of  government 
would  be  an  immense  advantage  to  Rome  ?  ” 

“  No,  I  do  not.  To  Italy  the  advantage  would  be  inestima¬ 
ble;  to  Rome  it  would  be  an  injury.  Italy  would  consolidate 
the  prestige  she  began  to  acquire  when  Cavour  succeeded  in 
sending  a  handful  of  troops  to  the  Crimea  eleven  years  ago; 
she  would  at  once  take  a  high  position  as  a  European  Power 
— provided  always  that  the  smouldering  republican  element 
should  not  break  out  in  opposition  to  the  constitutional  mon¬ 
archy.  But  Rome  would  be  ruined.  She  is  no  longer  the 
geographical  capital  of  Italy — she  is  not  even  the  largest  city; 
but  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  violent  efforts  would  be  made 
to  give  her  a  fictitious  modern  grandeur,  in  the  place  of  the 
moral  importance  she  now  enjoys  as  the  headquarters  of  the 
Catholic  world.  Those  efforts  at  a  spurious  growth  would  ruin 
her  financially,  and  the  hatred  of  Romans  for  Italians  of  the 
north  would  cause  endless  internal  dissension.  We  should  be 
subjected  to  a  system  of  taxation  which  would  fall  more 
heavily  on  us  than  on  other  Italians,  in  proportion  as  our  land 
is  less  productive.  On  the  whole,  we  should  grow  rapidly 
poorer;  for  prices  would  rise,  and  we  should  have  a  paper  cur¬ 
rency  instead  of  a  metallic  one.  Especially  we  landed  proprie¬ 
tors  would  suffer  terribly  by  the  Italian  land  system  being 
suddenly  thrust  upon  us.  To  be  obliged  to  sell  one’s  acres  to 
any  peasant  who  can  scrape  together  enough  to  capitalise  the 
pittance  he  now  pays  as  rent,  at  five  per  cent,  would  scarcely 
be  agreeable.  Such  a  fellow,  from  whom  I  have  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  extracting  his  yearly  bushel  of  grain,  could  borrow 
twenty  bushels  from  a  neighbour,  or  the  value  of  them,  and 
buy  me  out  without  my  consent — acquiring  land  worth  ten 
times  the  rent  he  and  his  father  have  paid  for  it,  and  his  father 
before  him.  It  would  produce  an  extraordinary  state  of  things, 
I  can  assure  you.  No — even  putting  aside  what  you  call  my 
sympathies  and  my  loyalty  to  the  Pope — I  do  not  desire  any 
change.  Nobody  who  owns  much  property  does;  the  revolu¬ 
tionary  spirits  are  people  who  own  nothing.” 


SARACINESCA. 


51 


“  On  the  other  hand,  those  who  own  nothing,  or  next  to 
nothing,  are  the  great  majority.” 

“  Even  if  that  is  true,  which  I  doubt,  I  do  not  see  why 
the  'intelligent  few  should  be  ruled  by  that  same  ignorant 
majority.” 

“  But  you  forget  that  the  majority  is  to  be  educated,” 
objected  Del  Ferice. 

“  Education  is  a  term  few  people  can  define,”  returned  Gio¬ 
vanni.  “  Any  good  schoolmaster  knows  vastly  more  than  you 
or  I.  Would  you  like  to  be  governed  by  a  majority  of  school¬ 
masters  ?  ” 

“  That  is  a  plausible  argument,”  laughed  Del  Ferice,  “  but  it 
is  not  sound.” 

“It  is  not  sound!”  repeated  Giovanni,  impatiently.  “People 
are  so  fond  of  exclaiming  that  what  they  do  not  like  is  not 
sound  !  Do  you  think  that  it  would  not  be  a  fair  case  to  put 
five  hundred  schoolmasters  against  five  hundred  gentlemen 
of  average  education  ?  I  think  it  would  be  very  fair.  The 
schoolmasters  would  certainly  have  the  advantage  in  educa¬ 
tion  :  do  you  mean  to  say  they  would  make  better  or  wiser 
electors  than  the  same  number  of  gentlemen  who  cannot  name 
all  the  cities  and  rivers  in  Italy,  nor  translate  a  page  of  Latin 
without  a  mistake,  but  who  understand  the  conditions  of  pro¬ 
perty  by  practical  experience  as  no  schoolmaster  can  possibly 
understand  them  ?  I  tell  you  it  is  nonsense.  Education,  of 
the  kind  which  is  of  any  practical  value  in  the  government  of 
a  nation,  means  the  teaching  of  human  motives,  of  humanising 
ideas,  of  some  system  whereby  the  majority  of  electors  can 
distinguish  the  qualities  of  honesty  and  common-sense  in  the 
candidate  they  wish  to  elect.  I  do  not  pretend  to  say  what 
that  system  may  be,  but  I  assert  that  no  education  which  does 
not  lead  to  that  kind  of  knowledge  is  of  any  practical  use  to 
the  voting  majority  of  a  constitutionally  governed  country.” 

Del  Ferice  sighed  rather  sadly. 

“  I*  am  afraid  you  will  not  discover  that  system  in  Europe,” 
he  said.  He  was  disappointed  in  Giovanni,  and  in  his  hopes 
of  detecting  in  him  some  signs  of  a  revolutionary  spirit.  Sara- 
cinesca  was  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  who  evidently 
despised  majorities  and  modern  political  science  as  a  whole, 
who  for  the  sake  of  his  own  interests  desired  no  change  from 
the  Government  under  which  he  lived,  and  who  would  surely 
be  the  first  to  draw  the  sword  for  the  temporal  power,  and  the 
last  to  sheathe  it.  His  calm  judgment  concerning  the  fallacy 
of  holding  a  hopeless  position  would  vanish  like  smoke  if  his 
fiery  blood  were  once  roused.  He  was  so  honest  a  man  that 
even  Del  Ferice  could  not  suspect  him  of  parading  views  he 


52 


SARACINESCA. 


did  not  hold ;  and  Ugo  then  and  there  abandoned  all  idea  of 
bringing  him  into  political  trouble  and  disgrace,  though  he  by 
no  means  gave  up  all  hope  of  being  able  to  ruin  him  in  some 
other  way. 

“  I  agree  with  you  there  at  least,”  said  Saracinesca.  “  The 
only  improvements  worth  having  are  certainly  not  to  be  found 
in  Europe.  Donna  Tullia  is  calling  us.  We  had  better  join 
that  harmless  flock  of  lambs,  and  give  over  speculating  on  the 
advantages  of  allying  ourselves  with  a  pack  of  wolves  who  will 
eat  us  up,  house  and  home,  bag  and  baggage.” 

So  the  whole  party  climbed  again  to  their  seats  upon  the 
drag,  and  Yaldarno  drove  them  back  into  Rome  by  the  Porta 
San  Giovanni. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

Corona  d’Astrardente  had  been  educated  in  a  convent — that 
is  to  say,  she  had  been  brought  up  in  the  strict  practice  of  her 
religion;  and  during  the  five  years  which  had  elapsed  since  she 
had  come  out  into  the  world,  she  had  found  no  cause  for  forsak¬ 
ing  the  habits  she  had  acquired  in  her  girlhood.  Some  people 
find  religion  a  burden;  others  regard  it  as  an  indifferently  use¬ 
less  institution,  in  which  they  desire  no  share,  and  concerning 
which  they  never  trouble  themselves ;  others,  again,  look  upon 
it  as  the  mainstay  of  their  lives. 

It  is  natural  to  suppose  that  the  mode  of  thought  and  the 
habits  acquired  by  young  girls  in  a  religious  institution  will 
not  disappear  without  a  trace  when  they  first  go  into  the 
world,  and  it  may  even  be  expected  that  some  memory  of  the 
early  disposition  thus  cultivated  will  cling  to  them  throughout 
their  lives.  But  the  multifarious  interests  of  social  existence 
do  much  to  shake  that  young  edifice  of  faith.  The  driving 
strength  of  stormy  passions  of  all  kinds  undermines  the  walls 
of  the  fabric,  and  when  at  last  the  bolt  of  adversity  strikes  full 
upon  the  keystone  of  the  arch,  upon  the  self  of  man  or  woman, 
weakened  and  loosened  by  the  tempests  of  years,  the  whole 
palace  of  the  soul  falls  in,  a  hopeless  wreck,  wherein  not  even 
the  memory  of  outline  can  be  traced,  nor  the  faint  shadow  of  a 
beauty  which  is  destroyed  for  ever. 

But  there  are  some  whose  interests  in  this  world  are  not 
strong  enough  to  shake  their  faith  in  the  next;  whose  passions 
do  not  get  the  mastery,  and  whose  self  is  sheltered  from  danger 
by  something  more  than  the  feeble  defence  of  an  accomplished 
egotism.  Corona  was  one  of  these,  for  her  lot  had  not  been 
happy,  nor  her  path  strewn  with  roses. 

She  was  a  friendless  woman,  destined  to  suffer  much,  and 


SAKACINESCA, 


53 


her  suffering  was  the  more  intense  that  she  seemed  always 
upon  the  point  of  finding  friends  in  the  world  where  she 
played  so  conspicuous  a  part.  There  can  be  little  happiness 
when  a  whole  life  has  been  placed  upon  a  false  foundation, 
even  though  so  dire  a  mistake  may  have  been  committed  will¬ 
ingly  and  from  a  sense  of  duty  and  obligation,  such  as  drove 
Corona  to  marry  old  Astrardente.  Consolation  is  not  satisfac¬ 
tion  ;  and  though,  when  she  reflected  on  what  she  had  done, 
she  knew  that  from  her  point  of  view  she  had  done  her  best, 
she  knew  also  that  she  had  closed  upon  herself  the  gates  of  the 
earthly  paradise,  and  that  for  her  the  prospect  of  happiness 
had  been  removed  from  the  now  to  the  hereafter — the  dim  and 
shadowy  glass  in  which  we  love  to  see  any  reflection  save  that 
of  our  present  lives.  And  to  her,  thus  living  in  submission 
to  the  consequences  of  her  choice,  that  faith  in  things  better 
which  had  inspired  her  to  sacrifice  was  the  chief  remaining 
source  of  consolation.  There  was  a  good  man  to  whom  she 
went  for  advice,  as  she  had  gone  tb  him  ever  since  she  could 
remember.  When  she  found  herself  in  trouble  she  never  hesi¬ 
tated.  Padre  Filippo  was  to  her  the  living  proof  of  the  possi¬ 
bility  of  human  goodness,  as  faith  is  to  us  all  the  evidence  of 
things  not  seen. 

Corona  was  in  trouble  now — in  a  trouble  so  new  that  she 
hardly  understood  it,  so  terrible  and  yet  so  vague  that  she 
felt  her  peril  imminent.  She  did  not  hesitate,  therefore,  nor 
change  her  mind  upon  the  morning  following  the  day  of  the 
meet,  but  drove  to  the  church  of  the  Capuchins  in  the  Piazza 
Barberini,  and  went  up  the  broad  steps  with  a  beating  heart, 
not  knowing  how  she  should  tell  what  she  meant  to  tell,  yet 
knowing  that  there  was  for  her  no  hope  of  peace  unless  she 
told  it  quickly,  and  got  that  advice  and  direction  she  so 
earnestly  craved. 

Padre  Filippo  had  been  a  man  of  the  world  in  his  time — a 
man  of  great  cultivation,  full  of  refined  tastes  and  understand¬ 
ing  of  tastes  in  others,  gentle  and  courteous  in  his  manners, 
and  very  kind  of  heart.  No  one  knew  whence  he  came.  He 
spoke  Italian  correctly  and  with  a  keen  scholarly  use  of  words, 
but  his  slight  accent  betrayed  his  foreign  birth.  He  had  been 
a  Capuchin  monk  for  many  years,  perhaps  for  more  than  half 
his  lifetime,  and  Corona  could  remember  him  from  her  child¬ 
hood,  for  he  had  been  a  friend  of  her  father’s ;  but  he  had  not 
been  consulted  about  her  marriage, — she  even  remembered 
that,  though  she  had  earnestly  desired  to  see  him  before  the 
wedding-day,  her  father  had  told  her  that  he  had  left  Rome 
for  a  time.  For  the  old  gentleman  was  in  terrible  earnest 
about  the  match,  so  that  in  his  heart  he  feared  lest  Corona 


54 


SARACINESCA. 


might  waver  and  ask  Padre  Filippo’s  advice;  and  he  knew  the 
good  monk  too  well  to  think  that  he  would  give  his  counte¬ 
nance  to  such  a  sacrifice  as  was  contemplated  in  marrying  the 
young  girl  to  old  Astrardente.  Corona  had  known  this  later, 
but  had  hardly  realised  the  selfishness  of  her  father,  nor  indeed 
had  desired  to  realise  it.  It  was  sufficient  that  he  had  died 
satisfied  in  seeing  her  married  to  a  great  noble,  and  that  she 
had  been  able,  in  his  last  days,  to  relieve  him  from  the  distress 
of  debt  and  embarrassment  which  had  doubtless  contributed 
to  shorten  his  life. 

The  proud  woman  who  had  thus  once  humbled  herself  for 
an  object  she  thought  good,  had  never  referred  to  her  action 
again.  She  had  never  spoken  of  her  position  to  Padre  Filippo, 
so  that  the  monk  wondered  and  admired  her  steadfastness.  If 
she  suffered,  it  was  in  silence,  without  comment  and  without 
complaint,  and  so  she  would  have  suffered  to  the  end.  But  it 
had  been  ordered  otherwise.  For  months  she  had  known  that 
the  interest  she  felt  in  Giovanni  Saracinesca  was  increasing: 
she  had  choked  it  down,  had  done  all  in  her  power  to  prove 
herself  indifferent  to  him;  but  at  last  the  crisis  had  come. 
When  he  spoke  to  her  of  his  marriage,  she  had  felt — she  knew 
now  that  it  was  so — that  she  loved  him.  The  very  word,  as 
she  repeated  it  to  herself,  rang  like  an  awful,  almost  incompre¬ 
hensible,  accusation  of  evil  in  her  ears.  One  moment  she  stood 
at  the  top  of  the  steps  outside  the  church,  looking  down  at  the 
bare  straggling  trees  below, and  upward  to  the  grey  sky,  against 
which  the  lofty  eaves  of  the  Palazzo  Barberini  stood  out  sharply 
defined.  The  weather  had  changed  again,  and  a  soft  southerly 
wind  was  blowing  the  spray  of  the  fountain  half  across  the 
piazza.  Corona  paused,  her  graceful  figure  half  leaning  against 
the  stone  doorpost  of  the  church,  her  hand  upon  the  heavy 
leathern  curtain  in  the  act  to  lift  it;  and  as  she  stood  there,  a 
desperate  temptation  assailed  her.  It  seemed  desperate  to  her 
— to  many  another  woman  it  would  have  appeared  only  the 
natural  course  to  pursue — to  turn  her  back  upon  the  church, 
to  put  off  the  hard  moment  of  confession,  to  go  down  again 
into  the  city,  and  to  say  to  herself  that  there  was  no  harm  in 
seeing  Don  Giovanni,  provided  she  never  let  him  speak  of  love. 
Why  should  he  speak  of  it  ?  Had  she  any  reason  to  suppose 
there  was  danger  to  her  in  anything  he  meant  to  say  ?  Had 
he  ever,  by  word  or  deed,  betrayed  that  interest  in  her  which 
she  knew  in  herself  was  love  for  him  ?  Had  he  ever  ? — ah  yes! 
It  was  only  the  night  before  last  that  he  had  asked  her  advice, 
had  besought  her  to  advise  him  not  to  marry  another,  had  suf¬ 
fered  his  arm  to  tremble  when  she  laid  her  hand  upon  it.  In 
the  quick  remembrance  that  he  too  had  shown  some  feeling, 


SARACINESCA. 


55 


there  was  a  sudden  burst  of  joy  such  as  Corona  had  never  felt, 
and  a  moment  later  she  knew  it  and  was  afraid.  It  was  true, 
then.  At  the  very  time  when  she  was  most  oppressed  with  the 
sense  of  her  fault  in  loving  him,  there  was  an  inward  rejoicing 
in  her  heart  at  the  bare  thought  that  she  loved  him.  Could  a 
woman  fall  lower,  she  asked  herself — lower  than  to  delight  in 
what  she  knew  to  be  most  bad  ?  And  yet  it  was  such  a  poor 
little  thrill  of  pleasure  after  all;  but  it  was  the  first  she  had 
ever  known.  To  turn  away  and  reflect  for  a  few  days  would 
be  so  easy!  It  would  be  so  sweet  to  think  of  it,  even  though 
the  excuse  for  thinking  of  Giovanni  should  be  a  good  deter¬ 
mination  to  root  him  from  her  life.  It  would  be  so  sweet  to 
drive  again  alone  among  the  trees  that  very  afternoon,  and  to 
weigh  the  salvation  of  her  soul  in  the  balance  of  her  heart:  her 
heart  would  know  how  to  turn  the  scales,  surely  enough. 
Corona  stood  still,  holding  the  curtain  in  her  hand.  She  was 
a  brave  woman,  but  she  turned  pale — not  hesitating,  she  said 
to  herself,  but  pausing.  Then,  suddenly,  a  great  scorn  of  her¬ 
self  arose  in  her.  Was  it  worthy  of  her  even  to  pause  in  doing 
right?  The  nobility  of  her  courage  cried  loudly  to  her  to  go 
in  and  do  the  thing  most  worthy:  her  hand  lifted  the  heavy 
leathern  apron,  and  she  entered  the  church. 

The  air  within  was  heavy  and  moist,  and  the  grey  light  fell 
coldly  through  the  tall  windows.  Corona  shuddered,  and  drew 
her  furs  more  closely  about  her  as  she  passed  up  the  aisle  to 
the  door  of  the  sacristy.  She  found  the  monk  she  sought,  and 
she  made  her  confession. 

“  Padre  mio,”  she  said  at  last,  when  the  good  man  thought 
she  had  finished — “  Padre  mio,  I  am  a  very  miserable  woman/’ 
She  hid  her  dark  face  in  her  ungloved  hands,  and  one  by  one 
the  crystal  tears  welled  from  her  eyes  and  trickled  down  upon 
her  small  fingers  and  upon  the  worn  black  wood  of  the  confes¬ 
sional. 

"My  daughter,”  said  the  good  monk,  "I  will  pray  for  you, 
others  will  pray  for  you — but  before  all  things,  you  must  pray 
for  yourself.  And  let  me  advise  you,  my  child,  that  as  we  are 
all  led  into  temptation,  we  must  not  think  that  because  we  have 
been  in  temptation  we  have  sinned  hopelessly;  nor,  if  we  have 
fought  against  the  thing  that  tempts  us,  should  we  at  once 
imagine  that  we  have  overcome  it,  and  have  done  altogether 
right.  If  there  were  no  evil  in  ourselves,  there  could  be  no 
temptation  from  without,  for  nothing  evil  could  seem  pleasant. 
But  with  you  I  cannot  find  that  you  have  done  any  great 
wrong  as  yet.  You  must  take  courage.  We  are  all  in  the 
world,  and  do  what  we  may,  we  cannot  disregard  it.  The  sin 
you  see  is  real,  but  it  is  yet  not  very  near  you  since  you  so 


56 


SARACIKESCA. 


abhor  it;  and  if  you  pray  that  you  may  hate  it,  it  will  go  fur¬ 
ther  from  you  till  you  may  hope  not  even  to  understand  how 
it  could  once  have  been  so  near.  Take  courage — take  comfort. 
Do  not  be  morbid.  Eesist  temptation,  but  do  not  analyse  it 
nor  yourself  too  closely;  for  it  is  one  of  the  chief  signs  of  evil 
in  us  that  when  we  dwell  too  much  upon  ourselves  and  upon 
our  temptations,  we  ourselves  seem  good  in  our  own  eyes,  and 
our  temptations  not  unpleasant,  because  the  very  resisting  of 
them  seems  to  make  us  appear  better  than  we  are.” 

But  the  tears  still  flowed  from  Corona’s  eyes  in  the  dark 
corner  of  the  church,  and  she  could  not  be  comforted. 

“  Padre  mio,”  she  repeated,  “  I  am  very  unhappy.  I  have 
not  a  friend  in  the  world  to  whom  I  can  speak.  I  have  never 
seen  my  life  before  as  I  see  it  now.  God  forgive  me,  I  have 
never  loved  my  husband.  I  never  knew  what  it  meant  to  love. 
I  was  a  mere  child,  a  very  innocent  child,  when  I  was  married 
to  him.  I  would  have  sought  your  advice,  but  they  told  me 
you  were  away,  and  I  thought  I  was  doing  right  in  obeying  my 
father.” 

Padre  Filippo  sighed.  He  had  long  known  and  understood 
why  Corona  had  not  been  allowed  to  come  to  him  at  the  most 
important  moment  of  her  life. 

“  My  husband  is  very  kind  to  me,”  she  continued  in  broken 
tones.  “  He  loves  me  in  his  way,  but  I  do  not  love  him.  That 
of  itself  is  a  great  sin.  It  seems  to  me  as  though  I  saw  but 
one  half  of  life,  and  saw  it  from  the  window  of  a  prison ;  and 
yet  I  am  not  imprisoned.  I  would  that  I  were,  for  I  should 
never  have  seen  another  man.  I  should  never  have  heard  his 
voice,  nor  seen  his  face,  nor — nor  loved  him,  as  I  do  love  him,” 
she  sobbed. 

“  Hush,  my  daughter,”  said  the  old  monk,  very  gently. 
“You  told  me  you  had  never  spoken  of  love;  that  you  were 
interested  in  him,  indeed,  but  that  you  did  not  know - ” 

“  I  know — I  know  now,”  cried  Corona,  losing  all  control  as 
the  passionate  tears  flowed  down.  “I  could  not  say  it — it 
seemed  so  dreadful — I  love  him  with  my  whole  self  !  1  can 

never  get  it  out — it  burns  me.  0  God,  I  am  so  wretched!  ” 

Padre  Filippo  was  silent  for  a  while.  It  was  a  terrible  case. 
He  could  not  remember  in  all  his  experience  to  have  known 
one  more  sad  to  contemplate,  though  his  business  was  with  the 
sins  and  the  sorrows  of  the  world.  The  beautiful  woman 
kneeling  outside  his  confessional  was  innocent — as  innocent  as 
a  child,  brave  and  faithful.  She  had  sacrificed  her  whole  life 
for  her  father,  who  had  been  little  worthy  of  such  devotion ; 
she  had  borne  for  years  the  suffering  of  being  tied  to  an  old  man 
whom  she  could  not  help  despising,  however  honestly  she  tried 


SARACItfESCA. 


57 


to  conceal  the  fact  from  herself,  however  effectually  she  hid  it 
from  others.  It  was  a  wonder  the  disaster  had  not  occurred 
before :  it  showed  how  loyal  and  true  a  woman  she  was,  that, 
living  in  the  very  centre  and  midst  of  the  world,  admired  and 
assailed  by  many,  she  should  never  in  five  years  have  so  much 
as  thought  of  any  man  beside  her  husband.  A  woman  made 
for  love  and  happiness,  in  the  glory  of  beauty  and  youth,  capa¬ 
ble  of  such  unfaltering  determination  in  her  loyalty,  so  good, 
so  noble,  so  generous, — it  seemed  unspeakably  pathetic  to  hear 
her  weeping  her  heart  out,  and  confessing  that,  after  so  many 
struggles  and  efforts  and  sacrifices,  she  had  at  last  met  the 
common  fate  of  all  humanity,  and  was  become  subject  to  love. 
What  might  have  been  her  happiness  was  turned  to  dishonour; 
what  should  have  been  the  pride  of  her  young  life  was  made  a 
reproach. 

She  would  not  fall.  The  grey-haired  monk  believed  that, 
in  his  great  knowledge  of  mankind.  But  she  would  suffer 
terribly,  and  it  might  be  that  others  would  suffer  also.  It 
was  the  consequence  of  an  irretrievable  error  in  the  beginning, 
when  it  had  seemed  to  the  young  girl  just  leaving  the  convent 
that  the  best  protection  against  the  world  of  evil  into  which 
she  was  to  go  would  be  the  unconditional  sacrifice  of  herself. 

Padre  Filippo  was  silent.  He  hoped  that  the  passionate 
outburst  of  grief  and  self-reproach  would  pass,  though  he 
himself  could  find  little  enough  to  say.  It  was  all  too  natural. 
What  was  he,  he  thought,  that  he  should  explain  away  nature, 
and  bid  a  friendless  woman  defy  a  power  that  has  more  than 
once  overset  the  reckoning  of  the  world  ?  He  could  bid  her 
pray  for  help  and  strength,  but  he  found  it  hard  to  argue  the 
case  with  her;  for  he  had  to  allow  that  his  beautiful  penitent 
was,  after  all,  only  experiencing  what  it  might  have  been 
foretold  that  she  must  feel,  and  that,  as  far  as  he  could  see, 
she  was  struggling  bravely  against  the  dangers  of  her  situa¬ 
tion. 

Corona  cried  bitterly  as  she  knelt  there.  It  was  a  great 
relief  to  give  way  for  a  time  to  the  whole  violence  of  what 
she  felt.  It  may  be  that  in  her  tears  there  was  a  subtle 
instinctive  knowledge  that  she  was  weeping  for  her  love  as 
well  as  for  her  sin  in  loving,  but  her  grief  was  none  the  less 
real.  She  did  not  understand  herself.  She  did  not  know, 
as  Padre  Filippo  knew,  that  her  woman’s  heart  was  breaking 
for  sympathy  rather  than  for  religious  counsel.  She  knew 
many  women,  but  her  noble  pride  would  not  have  let  her 
even  contemplate  the  possibility  of  confiding  in  any  one  of 
them,  even  if  she  could  have  done  so  in  the  certainty  of  not 
being  herself  betrayed  and  of  not  betraying  the  man  she  loved. 


58 


SARACmESCA. 


She  had  been  accustomed  to  come  to  her  confessor  for  counsel, 
and  she  now  came  to  him  with  her  troubles  and  craved  sym¬ 
pathy  for  them,  in  the  knowledge  that  Padre  Filippo  could 
never  know  the  name  of  the  man  who  had  disturbed  her 
peace. 

But  the  monk  understood  well  enough,  and  his  kind  heart 
comprehended  hers  and  felt  for  her. 

“  My  daughter,”  he  said  at  last,  when  she  seemed  to  have 
grown  more  calm,  “  it  would  be  an  inestimable  advantage  if 
this  man  could  go  away  for  a  time,  but  that  is  probably  not 
to  be  expected.  Meanwhile,  you  must  not  listen  to  him  if  he 
speaks - ” 

“  It  is  not  that,”  interrupted  Corona — “  it  is  not  that.  He 
never  speaks  of  love.  Oh,  I  really  believe  he  does  not  love  me 
at  all!  ”  But  in  her  heart  she  felt  that  he  must  love  her;  and 
her  hand,  as  it  lay  upon  the  hard  wood  of  the  confessional, 
seemed  still  to  feel  his  trembling  arm. 

“  That  is  so  much  the  better,  my  child,”  said  the  monk, 
quietly.  “  For  if  he  does  not  love  you,  your  temptations  will 
not  grow  stronger.” 

“  And  yet,  perhaps — he  may — — ”  murmured  Corona,  feeling 
that  it  would  be  wrong  even  to  conceal  her  faintest  suspicions 
at  such  a  time. 

“  Let  there  be  no  perhaps,”  answered  Padre  Filippo,  almost 
sternly.  “Let  it  never  enter  your  mind  that  he  might  love 
you.  Think  that  even  from  the  worldly  point  there  is  small 
dignity  in  a  woman  who  exhibits  love  for  a  man  who  has  never 
mentioned  love  to  her.  You  have  no  reason  to  suppose  you 
are  loved  save  that  you  desire  to  be.  Let  there  be  no  perhaps.” 

The  monk’s  keen  insight  into  character  had  given  him  an 
unexpected  weapon  in  Corona’s  defence.  He  knew  how  of  all 
things  a  proud  woman  hates  to  know  that  where  she  has  placed 
her  heart  there  is  no  response,  and  that  if  she  fails  to  awaken 
an  affection  akin  to  her  own,  what  has  been  love  maybe  turned 
to  loathing,  or  at  least  to  indifference.  The  strong  character 
of  the  Ducliessa  d’Astrardente  responded  to  his  touch  as  he 
expected.  Her  tears  ceased  to  flow,  and  her  scorn  rose  haughtily 
against  herself. 

“  It  is  true.  I  am  despicable,”  she  said,  suddenly.  “  You 
have  shown  me  myself.  There  shall  be  no  perhaps.  I  loathe 
myself  for  thinking  of  it.  Pray  for  me,  lest  I  fall  so  low  again.” 

A  few  minutes  later  Corona  left  the  confessional  and  went 
and  kneeled  .in  the  body  of  the  church  to  collect  her  thoughts. 
She  was  in  a  very  different  frame  of  mind  from  that  in  which 
she  had  left  home  an  hour  ago.  She  hardly  knew  whether  she 
felt  herself  a  better  woman,  but  she  was  sure  that  she  was 


SARACINESCA. 


59 


stronger.  There  was  no  desire  left  in  her  to  meditate  sadly 
upon  her  sorrow — to  go  over  and  over  in  her  thoughts  the 
feelings  she  experienced,  the  fears  she  felt,  the  half-formulated 
hope  that  Giovanni  might  love  her  after  all.  There  was  left 
only  a  haughty  determination  to  have  done  with  her  folly 
quickly  and  surely,  and  to  try  and  forget  it  for  ever.  The 
confessor’s  words  had  produced  their  elfect.  Henceforth  she 
would  never  stoop  so  low  again.  She  was  ready  to  go  out  into 
the  world  now,  and  she  felt  no  fear.  It  was  more  from  habit 
than  for  the  sake  of  saying  a  prayer  that  she  knelt  in  the 
church  after  her  confession,  for  she  felt  very  strong.  She  rose 
to  her  feet  presently,  and  moved  towards  the  door :  she  had  not 
gone  half  the  length  of  the  church  when  she  came  face  to  face 
with  Donna  Tullia  Mayer. 

It  was  a  strange  coincidence.  The  ladies  of  Rome  frequently  - 
go  to  the  church  of  the  Capuchins,  as  Corona  had  done,  to  seek 
the  aid  and  counsel  of  Padre  Filippo,  but  Corona  had  never 
met  Donna  Tullia  there.  Madame  Mayer  did  not  profess  to  be 
very  devout.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  not  found  it  con¬ 
venient  to  go  to  confession  during  the  Christmas  season,  and 
she  had  been  intending  to  make  up  for  the  deficiency  for  some 
time  past;  but  it  is  improbable  that  she  would  have  decided 
upon  fulfilling  her  religious  obligations  before  Lent  if  she  had 
not  chanced  to  see  the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente’s  carriage 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  church  steps. 

Donna  Tullia  had  risen  early  because  she  was  going  to  sit 
for  her  portrait  to  a  young  artist  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Piazza  Barberini,  and  as  she  passed  in  her  brougham 
she  caught  sight  of  the  Duchessa’s  liveries.  The  artist  could 
wait  half  an  hour:  the  opportunity  was  admirable.  She  was 
alone,  and  would  not  only  do  her  duty  in  going  to  confession, 
but  would  have  a  chance  of  seeing  how  Corona  looked  when 
she  had  been  at  her  devotions.  It  might  also  be  possible  to 
judge  from  Padre  Filippo’s  manner  whether  the  interview  had 
been  an  interesting  one.  The  Astrardente  was  so  very  devout 
that  she  probably  had  difficulty  in  inventing  sins  to  confess. 
One  might  perhaps  tell  from  her  face  whether  she  had  felt  any 
emotion.  At  all  events  the  opportunity  should  not  be  lost. 
Besides,  if  Donna  Tullia  found  that  she  herself  was  really  not 
in  a  proper  frame  of  mind  for  religious  exercises,  she  could 
easily  spend  a  few  moments  in  the  church  and  then  proceed 
upon  her  way.  She  stopped  her  carriage  and  went  in.  She  had 
just  entered  when  she  was  aware  of  the  tall  figure  of  Corona 
d’ Astrardente  coming  towards  her,  magnificent  in  the  simpli¬ 
city  of  her  furs,  a  short  veil  just  covering  half  her  face,  and  an 
unwonted  colour  in  her  dark  cheeks. 


60 


SARACINESCA. 


Corona  was  surprised  at  meeting  Madame  Mayer,  but  she 
did  not  show  it.  She  nodded  with  a  sufficiently  pleasant 
smile,  and  would  have  passed  on.  This  would  not  have  suited 
Donna  Tullia’s  intentions,  however,  for  she  meant  to  have  a 
good  look  at  her  friend.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  to  confession  at  a  moment’s  notice. 
She  therefore  stopped  the  Duchessa,  and  insisted  upon  shaking 
hands. 

“  What  an  extraordinary  coincidence!  ”  she  exclaimed.  “  You 
must  have  been  to  see  Padre  Filippo  too  ? ” 

“Yes,”  answered  Corona.  “You  will  find  him  in  the  sac¬ 
risty.”  She  noticed  that  Madame  Mayer  regarded  her  with 
great  interest.  Indeed  she  could  hardly  be  aware  how  unlike 
her  usual  self  she  appeared.  There  were  dark  rings  beneath 
her  eyes,  and  her  eyes  themselves  seemed  to  emit  a  strange 
light;  while  an  unwonted  colour  illuminated  her  olive  cheeks, 
and  her  voice  had  a  curiously  excited  tone.  Madame  Mayer 
stared  at  her  so  hard  that  she  noticed  it. 

“  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?  ”  asked  the  Duchessa, 
with  a  smile. 

“  I  was  wondering  what  in  the  world  you  could  find  to  con¬ 
fess,”  replied  Donna  Tullia,  sweetly.  “  You  are  so  immensely 
good,  you  see;  everybody  wonders  at  you.” 

Corona’s  eyes  flashed  darkly.  She  suspected  that  Madame 
Mayer  noticed  something  unusual  in  her  appearance,  and  had 
made  the  awkward  speech  to  conceal  her  curiosity.  She  was 
annoyed  at  the  meeting,  still  more  at  being  detained  in  conver¬ 
sation  within  the  church. 

“  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  invest  me  with  such  virtues,”  she 
answered.  “  I  assure  you  I  am  not  half  so  good  as  you  sup¬ 
pose.  Good-bye — I  must  be  going  home.” 

“Stay!”  exclaimed  Donna  Tullia;  “I  can  go  to  confession 
another  time.  Will  not  you  come  with  me  to  Gouache’s  studio  ? 
I  am  going  to  sit.  It  is  such  a  bore  to  go  alone.” 

“  Thank  you  very  much,”  said  Corona,  civilly.  “  I  am  afraid 
I  cannot  go.  My  husband  expects  me  at  home.  I  wish  you  a 
good  sitting.” 

“  Well,  good-bye.  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  we  had  such  a 
charming  picnic  yesterday.  It  was  so  fortunate — the  only  fine 
day  this  week.  Giovanni  was  very  amusing:  he  was  com¬ 
pletely  en  train,  and  kept  us  laughing  the  whole  day.  Good¬ 
bye  ;  I  do  so  wish  you  had  come.” 

“I  was  very  sorry,”  answered  Corona,  quietly,  “ but  it  was 
impossible.  I  am  glad  you  all  enjoyed  it  so  much.  Good-bye.” 

So  they  parted. 

“  How  she  wishes  that  same  husband  of  hers  would  follow 


SARACINESCA. 


61 


the  example  of  my  excellent  old  Mayer,  of  blessed  memory,  and 
take  himself  out  of  the  world  to-day  or  to-morrow!"  thought 
Donna  Tullia,  as  she  walked  up  the  church. 

She  vras  sure  something  unusual  had  occurred,  and  she 
longed  to  fathom  the  mystery.  But  she  was  not  altogether  a 
bad  woman,  and  when  she  had  collected  her  thoughts  she  made 
up  her  mind  that  even  by  the  utmost  stretch  of  moral  indul¬ 
gence,  she  could  not  consider  herself  in  a  proper  state  to  un¬ 
dertake  so  serious  a  matter  as  confession.  She  therefore 
waited  a  few  minutes,  to  give  time  for  Corona  to  drive  away, 
and  then  turned  back.  She  cautiously  pushed  aside  the  cur¬ 
tain  and  looked  out.  The  Astrardente  carriage  was  just  disap¬ 
pearing  in  the  distance.  Donna  Tullia  descended  the  steps, 
got  into  her  brougham,  and  proceeded  to  the  studio  of  Mon¬ 
sieur  Anastase  Gouache,  the  portrait-painter.  She  had  not 
accomplished  much,  save  to  rouse  her  curiosity,  and  that  part¬ 
ing  thrust  concerning  Don  Giovanni  had  been  rather  ill  timed. 

She  drove  to  the  door  of  the  studio  and  found  Del  Ferice 
waiting  for  her  as  usual.  If  Corona  had  accompanied  her,  she 
would  have  expressed  astonishment  at  finding  him;  but,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  Ugo  always  met  her  there,  and  helped  to  pass 
the  time  while  she  was  sitting.  He  was  very  amusing,  and  not 
altogether -unsympathetic  to  her;  and  moreover,  he  professed 
for  her  the  most  profound  devotion — genuine,  perhaps,  and 
certainly  skilfully  expressed.  If  any  one  had  paid  much  at¬ 
tention  to  Del  Fence's  doings,  it  would  have  been  said  that  he 
was  paying  court  to  the  rich  young  widow.  But  he  was  never 
looked  upon  by  society  from  the  point  of  view  of  matrimonial 
possibility,  and  no  one  thought  of  attaching  any  importance  to 
his  doings.  Nevertheless  Ugo,  who  had  been  gradually  rising 
in  the  social  scale  for  many  years,  saw  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  win  the  hand  of  Donna  Tullia  as  well  as  any  one  else,  if 
only  Giovanni  Saracinesca  could  be  kept  out  of  the  way;  and 
he  devoted  himself  with  becoming  assiduity  to  the  service  of 
the  widow,  while  doing  his  utmost  to  promote  Giovanni's  at¬ 
tachment  for  the  Astrardente,  which  he  had  been  the  first  to 
discover.  Donna  Tullia  would  probably  have  laughed  to  scorn 
the  idea  that  Del  Ferice  could  think  of  himself  seriously  as  a 
suitor,  but  of  all  her  admirers  she  found  him  the  most  constant 
and  the  most  convenient. 

“  What  are  the  news  this  morning  ?  "  she  asked,  as  he  opened 
her  carriage-door  for  her  before  the  studio. 

“  None,  save  that  I  am  your  faithful  slave  as  ever,"  he  an¬ 
swered. 

“  I  have  just  seen  the  Astrardente,"  said  Donna  Tullia,  still  sit¬ 
ting  in  her  seat.  “  I  will  let  you  guess  where  it  was  that  we  met." 


62 


SARACINESCA. 


“  You  met  in  the  church  of  the  Capuchins,”  replied  Del  TV 
rice  promptty,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

“  You  are  a  sorcerer:  how  did  you  know?  Did  you  guess 
it?” 

“  If  you  will  look  down  this  street  from  where  I  stand,  you 
will  perceive  that  I  could  distinctly  see  any  carriage  which 
turned  out  of  the  Piazza  Barberini  towards  the  Capuchins,” 
replied  Ugo.  “She  was  there  nearly  an  hour,  and  you  only 
stayed  five  minutes.” 

“  How  dreadful  it  is  to  be  watched  like  this !  ”  exclaimed 
Donna  Tullia,  with  a  little  laugh,  half  expressive  of  satisfaction 
and  half  of  amusement  at  Del  Ferice’s  devotion. 

“  How  can  I  help  watching  you,  as  the  earth  watches  the  sun 
in  its  daily  course  ?  ”  said  Ugo,  with  a  sentimental  intonation 
of  his  soft  persuasive  voice.  Donna  Tullia  looked  at  his  smooth 
face,  and  laughed  again,  half  kindly. 

“The  Astrardente  had  been  confessing  her  sins,”  she  re¬ 
marked. 

“  Again  ?  She  is  always  confessing.” 

“What  do  you  suppose  she  finds  to  say?”  asked  Donna 
Tullia. 

“  That  her  husband  is  hideous,  and  that  you  are  beautiful,” 
answered  Del  Ferice,  readily  enough. 

“Why?” 

“  Because  she  hates  her  husband  and  hates  you.” 

“  Why,  again  ?  ” 

“  Because  you  took  Giovanni  Saracinesca  to  your  picnic  yes¬ 
terday;  because  you  are  always  taking  him  away  from  her. 
For  the  matter  of  that,  I  hate  him  as  much  as  the  Astrardente 
hates  you,”  added  Del  Ferice,  with  an  agreeable  smile.  Donna 
Tullia  did  not  despise  flattery,  but  Ugo  made  her  thoughtful. 

“  Do  you  think  she  really  cares - ?”  she  asked. 

“  As  surely  as  that  he  does  not,”  replied  Del  Ferice. 

“  It  would  be  strange,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  meditatively.  “I 
would  like  to  know  if  it  is  true.” 

“  You  have  only  to  watch  them.” 

“  Surely  Giovanni  cares  more  than  she  does,”  objected  Ma¬ 
dame  Mayer.  “Everybody  says  he  loves  her;  nobody  says  she 
loves  him.” 

“  All  the  more  reason.  •  Popular  report  is  always  mistaken — 
except  in  regard  to  you.” 

“  To  me  ?  ” 

“  Since  it  ascribes  to  you  so  much  that  is  good,  it  cannot  be 
wrong,”  replied  Del  Ferice. 

Donna  Tullia  laughed,  and  took  his  hand  to  descend  from 
her  carriage. 


SARACINESCA. 


63 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Monsieur  Gouache’s  studio  was  on  the  second  floor.  The 
narrow  flight  of  steps  ended  abruptly  against  a  green  door,  per¬ 
forated  by  a  slit  for  the  insertion  of  letters,  by  a  shabby  green 
cord  which,  being  pulled,  rang  a  feeble  bell,  and  adorned  by  a 
visiting-card,  whereon  with  many  superfluous  flourishes  and 
ornaments  of  caligraphy  was  inscribed  the  name  of  the  artist — 
Anastase  Gouache. 

The  door  being  opened  by  a  string,  Donna  Tullia  and  Del 
Ferice  entered,  and  mounting  half-a-dozen  more  steps,  found 
themselves  in  the  studio,  a  spacious  room  with  a  window  high 
above  the  floor,  half  shaded  by  a  curtain  of  grey  cotton.  In 
one  corner  an  iron  stove  gave  out  loud  cracking  sounds,  pleas¬ 
ant  to  hear  on  the  damp  winter’s  morning,  and  the  flame  shone 
red  through  chinks  of  the  rusty  door.  A  dark-green  carpet  in 
passably  good  condition  covered  the  floor;  three  or  four  broad 
divans,  spread  with  oriental  rugs,  and  two  very  much  dilapi¬ 
dated  carved  chairs  with  leathern  seats,  constituted  the  furni¬ 
ture;  the  walls  were  hung  with  sketches  of  heads  and  figures; 
half-finished  portraits  stood  upon  two  easels,  and  others  were 
leaning  together  in  a  corner;  a  couple  of  small  tables  were 
covered  with  colour-tubes,  brushes,  and  palette-knives;  min¬ 
gled  odours  of  paint,  varnish,  and  cigarette-smoke  pervaded 
the  air;  and,  lastly,  upon  a  high  stool  before  one  of  the  easels, 
his  sleeves  turned  up  to  the  elbow,  and  his  feet  tucked  in  upon 
a  rail  beneath  him,  sat  Anastase  Gouache  himself. 

He  was  a  man  of  not  more  than  seven-and-twenty  years,  with 
delicate  pale  features,  and  an  abundance  of  glossy  black  hair. 
A  small  and  very  much  pointed  moustache  shaded  his  upper 
lip,  and  the  extremities  thereof  rose  short  and  perpendicular 
from  the  corners  of  his  well-shaped  mouth.  His  eyes  were 
dark  and  singularly  expressive,  his  forehead  low  and  very  broad ; 
his  hands  were  sufficiently  nervous  and  well  knit,  but  white  as 
a  woman’s,  and  the  fingers  tapered  delicately  to  the  tips.  He 
wore  a  brown  velvet  coat  more  or  less  daubed  with  paint,  and 
his  collar  was  low  at  the  throat. 

He  sprang  from  his  high  stool  as  Donna  Tullia  and  Del 
Ferice  entered,  his  palette  and  mahl-stick  in  his  hand,  and 
made  a  most  ceremonious  bow;  whereat  Donna  Tullia  laughed 
gaily. 

44  Well,  Gouache,”  she  said  familiarly,  44  what  have  you  been 
doing  ?  ” 

Anastase  motioned  to  her  to  come  before  his  canvas  and  con¬ 
template  the  portrait  of  herself  upon  which  he  was  working. 
It  was  undeniably  good — a  striking  figure  in  full-length,  life- 


64 


SARACINESCA. 


size,  and  breathing  with  Donna  Tullia’s  vitality,  if  also  with 
something  of  her  coarseness. 

“  Ah,  my  friend,”  remarked  Del  Ferice,  “  you  will  never  be 
successful  until  you  take  my  advice.” 

“  I  think  it  is  very  like,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  thoughtfully. 

“  You  are  too  modest,”  answered  Del  Ferice.  “  There  is  the 
foundation  of  likeness,  but  it  lacks  yet  the  soul.” 

“  Oh,  but  that  will  come,”  returned  Madame  Mayer.  Then 
turning  to  the  artist,  she  added  in  a  more  doubtful  voice,  “  Per¬ 
haps,  as  Del  Ferice  says,  you  might  give  it  a  little  more  expres¬ 
sion — what  shall  I  say  ? — more  poetry.” 

Anastase  Gouache  smiled  a  fine  smile.  He  was  a  man  of 
immense  talent;  since  he  had  won  the  Prix  de  Rome  he  had 
made  great  progress,  and  was  already  half  famous  with  that 
young  celebrity  which  young  men  easily  mistake  for  fame  itself. 
A  new  comet  visible  only  through  a  good  glass  causes  a  deal  of 
talk  and  speculation  in  the  world;  but  unless  it  comes  near 
enough  to  brush  the  earth  with  its  tail,  it  is  very  soon  for¬ 
gotten.  But  Gouache  seemed  to  understand  this,  and  worked 
steadily  on.  When  Madame  Mayer  expressed  a  wish  for  a 
little  more  poetry  in  her  portrait,  he  smiled,  well  knowing  that 
poetry  was  as  far  removed  from  her  nature  as  dry  champagne 
is  different  in  quality  from  small  beer. 

“Yes,”  he  said;  “I  know — I  am  only  too  conscious  of  that 
defect.”  As  indeed  he  was — conscious  of  the  defect  of  it  in 
herself.  But  he  had  many  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  quarrel 
with  Donna  Tullia,  and  he  swallowed  his  artistic  convictions  in 
a  rash  resolve  to  make  her  look  like  an  inspired  prophetess 
rather  than  displease  her. 

“If  you  will  sit  down,  I  will  work  upon  the  head,”  he  said; 
and  moving  one  of  the  old  carved  chairs  into  position  for  her, 
he  adjusted  the  light  and  began  to  work  without  any  further 
words.  Del  Ferice  installed  himself  upon  a  divan  whence  he 
could  see  Donna  Tullia  and  her  portrait,  and  the  sitting  began. 
It  might  have  continued  for  some  time  in  a  profound  silence 
as  far  as  the  two  men  were  concerned,  but  silence  was  not 
bearable  for  long  to  Donna  Tullia. 

“  What  were  you  and  Saracinesca  talking  about  yesterday  ?  ” 
she  asked  suddenly,  looking  towards  Del  Ferice. 

“  Politics,”  he  answered,  and  was  silent. 

“  Well?”  inquired  Madame  Mayer,  rather  anxiously. 

“  I  am  sure  you  know  his  views  as  well  as  I,”  returned  Del 
Ferice,  rather  gloomily.  “He  is  stupid  and  prejudiced.” 

“  Really  ?  ”  ejaculated  Gouache,  with  innocent  surprise.  “  A 
little  more  towards  me,  Madame.  Thank  you — so.”  And  he 
continued  painting. 


SARACINESCA. 


65 


“You  are  absurd,  Del  Ferice!”  exclaimed  Donna  Tullia, 
colouring  a  little.  “  You  think  every  one  prejudiced  and 
stupid  who  does  not  agree  with  you.” 

“  With  me  ?  With  you,  with  us,  you  should  say.  Giovanni 
is  a  specimen  of  the  furious  Conservative,  who  hates  change 
and  has  a  cold  chill  at  the  word  f  republic/  Do  you  call  that 
intelligent  ?  ” 

“  Giovanni  is  intelligent  for  all  that,”  answered  Madame 
Mayer.  “  I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  not  more  intelligent  than 
you — in  some  ways,”  she  added,  after  allowing  her  rebuke  to 
take  effect. 

Del  Ferice  smiled  blandly.  It  was  not  his  business  to  show 
that  he  was  hurt. 

“  In  one  thing  he  is  stupid  compared  with  me,”  he  replied. 
“  He  is  very  far  from  doing  justice  to  your  charms.  It  must 
be  a  singular  lack  of  intelligence  which  prevents  him  from 
seeing  that  you  are  as  beautiful  as  you  are  charming.  Is  it  not 
so,  Gouache  ?  ” 

“  Does  any  one  deny  it  ?  ”  asked  the  Frenchman,  with  an  air 
of  devotion. 

Madame  Mayer  blushed  with  annoyance;  both  because  she 
coveted  Giovanni's  admiration  more  than  that  of  other  men, 
and  knew  that  she  had  not  won  it,  and  because  she  hated  to 
feel  that  Del  Ferice  was  able  to  wound  her  so  easily.  To  cover 
her  discomfiture  she  returned  to  the  subject  of  politics. 

“  We  talk  a  great  deal  of  our  convictions,”  she  said;  “  but  in 
the  meanwhile  we  must  acknowledge  that  we  have  accom¬ 
plished  nothing  at  all.  What  is  the  good  of  our  meeting  here 
two  or  three  times  a-week,  meeting  in  society,  whispering  to¬ 
gether,  corresponding  in  cipher,  and  doing  all  manner  of  things, 
when  everything  goes  on  just  the  same  as  before  ?  ” 

“  Better  give  it  up  and  join  Don  Giovanni  and  his  party,” 
returned  Del  Ferice,  with  a  sneer.  “  He  says  if  a  change  comes 
he  will  make  the  best  of  it.  Of  course,  we  could  not  do  better.” 

“  With  us  it  is  so  easy,”  said  Gouache,  thoughtfully.  “  A 
handful  of  students,  a  few  paving-stones,  *  Yive  la  Republique! ' 
and  we  have  a  tumult  in  no  time.” 

That  was  not  the  kind  of  revolution  in  which  Del  Ferice 
proposed  to  have  a  hand.  He  meditated  playing  a  very  small 
part  in  some  great  movement;  and  when  the  fighting  should 
be  over,  he  meant  to  exaggerate  the  part  he  had  played,  and 
claim  a  substantial  reward.  For  a  good  title  and  twenty  thou¬ 
sand  francs  a-year  he  w’ould  have  become  as  stanch  for  the 
temporal  power  as  any  canon  of  St.  Peter's.  When  he  had 
begun  talking  of  revolutions  to  Madame  Mayer  and  to  half-a- 
dozen  harebrained  youths,  of  whom  Gouache  the  painter  was 


66 


SARACIHESCA. 


one,  he  had  not  really  the  slightest  idea  of  accomplishing  any¬ 
thing.  He  took  advantage  of  the  prevailing  excitement  in 
order  to  draw  Donna  Tullia  into  a  closer  confidence  than  he 
could  otherwise  have  aspired  to  obtain.  He  wanted  to  marry 
her,  and  every  new  power  he  could  obtain  over  her  was  a  step 
towards  his  goal.  Neither  she  nor  her  friends  were  of  the  stuff 
required  for  revolutionary  work;  but  Del  Ferice  had  hopes 
that,  by  means  of  the  knot  of  malcontents  he  was  gradually 
drawing  together,  he  might  ruin  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  and  get 
the  hand  of  Donna  Tullia  in  marriage.  He  himself  was  indeed 
deeply  implicated  in  the  plots  of  the  Italian  party;  but  he  was 
only  employed  as  a  spy,  and  in  reality  knew  no  more  of  the  real 
intentions  of  those  he  served  than  did  Donna  Tullia  herself. 
But  the  position  was  sufficiently  lucrative;  so  much  so  that  he 
had  been  obliged  to  account  for  his  accession  of  fortune  by  say¬ 
ing  that  an  uncle  of  his  had  died  and  left  him  money. 

“  If  you  expected  Don  Giovanni  to  join  a  mob  of  students  in 
tearing  up  paving-stones  and  screaming  ‘Vive  la  Republique!  ’ 
I  am  not  surprised  that  you  are  disappointed  in  your  expecta¬ 
tions,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  rather  scornfully. 

“  That  is  only  Gouache’s  idea  of  a  popular  movement,”  an¬ 
swered  Del  Ferice. 

“And  yours,”  returned  Anastase, lowering  his  mahl-stick  and 
brushes,  and  turning  sharply  upon  the  Italian — “  yours  would 
be  to  begin  by  stabbing  Cardinal  Antonelli  in  the  back.” 

“You  mistake  me,  my  friend,”  returned  Del  Ferice,  blandly. 
“  If  you  volunteered  to  perform  that  service  to  Italy,  I  would 
certainly  not  dissuade  you.  But  I  would  certainly  not  offer  you 
my  assistance.” 

“Fie!  How  can  you  talk  like  that  of  murder!”  exclaimed 
Donna  Tullia.  “  Go  on  with  your  painting,  Gouache,  and  do 
not  be  ridiculous.” 

“The  question  of  tyrannicide  is  marvellously  interesting,” 
answered  Anastase  in  a  meditative  tone,  as  he  resumed  his 
work,  and  glanced  critically  from  Madame  Mayer  to  his  canvas 
and  back  again. 

‘  It  belongs  to  a  class  of  actions  at  which  Del  Ferice  rejoices, 
but  in  which  he  desires  no  part,”  said  Donna  Tullia. 

“  It  seems  to  me  wiser  to  contemplate  accomplishing  the  good 
result  without  any  unnecessary  and  treacherous  bloodshed,” 
answered  Del  Ferice,  sententiously.  Again  Gouache  smiled  in 
his  delicate  satirical  fashion,  and  glanced  at  Madame  Mayer, 
who  burst  into  a  laugh. 

“  Moral  reflections  never  sound  so  especially  and  ridiculously 
moral  as  in  your  mouth,  IT go,”  she  said. 

“  Why  ?  ”  he  asked,  in  an  injured  tone. 


SARACINESCA. 


67 


"I  am  sure  I  do  not  know.  Of  course,  we  all  would  like  to- 
see  Victor  Emmanuel  in  the  Quirinal,  and  Rome  the  capital  of 
a  free  Italy.  Of  course  we  would  all  like  to  see  it  accomplished 
without  murder  or  bloodshed;  but  somehow,  when  you  put  it 
into  words,  it  sounds  very  absurd.” 

In  her  brutal  fashion  Madame  Mayer  had  hit  upon  a  great 
truth,  and  Del  Ferice  was  very  much  annoyed.  He  knew  him¬ 
self  to  be  a  scoundrel;  he  knew  Madame  Mayer  to  be  a  woman 
of  very  commonplace  intellect;  he  wondered  why  he  was  not 
able  to  deceive  her  more  elfectually.  He  was  often  able  to 
direct  her,  he  sometimes  elicited  from  her  some  expression  of 
admiration  at  his  astuteness;  but  in  spite  of  his  best  efforts, 
she  saw  through  him  and  understood  him  better  than  he  liked. 

“  I  am  sorry,”  he  said,  “  that  what  is  honourable  should  sound 
ridiculous  when  it  comes  from  me.  I  like  to  think  sometimes 
that  you  believe  in  me.” 

“  Oh,  I  do,”  protested  Donna  Tullia,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  manner.  “  I  was  only  laughing.  I  think  you  are  really  in 
earnest.  Only,  you  know,  nowadays,  it  is  not  the  fashion  to 
utter  moralities  in  a  severe  tone,  with  an  air  of  conviction.  A 
little  dash  of  cynicism — you  know,  a  sort  of  half  sneer — is  so 
much  more  chic;  it  gives  a  much  higher  idea  of  the  morality, 
because  it  conveys  the  impression  that  it  is  utterly  beyond  you. 
Ask  Gouache - ” 

“  By  all  means,”  said  the  artist,  squeezing  a  little  more  red 
from  the  tube  upon  his  palette,  “  one  should  always  sneer  at 
what  one  cannot  reach.  The  fox,  you  remember,  called  the 
grapes  sour.  He  was  probably  right,  for  he  is  the  most  intelli¬ 
gent  of  animals.” 

“  I  would  like  to  hear  what  Giovanni  had  to  say  about  those 
grapes,”  remarked  Donna  Tullia. 

“  Oh,  he  sneered  in  the  most  fashionable  way,”  answered  Del 
Ferice.  “  He  would  have  pleased  you  immensely.  He  said  that 
he  would  be  ruined  by  a  change  of  government,  and  that  he 
thought  it  his  duty  to  fight  against  it.  He  talked  a  great  deal 
about  the  level  of  the  Tiber,  and  landed  property,  and  the 
duties  of  gentlemen.  And  he  ended  by  saying  he  would  make 
the  best  of  any  change  that  happened  to  come  about,  like  a 
thoroughgoing  egotist,  as  he  is!” 

“  I  would  like  to  hear  what  you  think  of  Don  Giovanni  Sara- 
cinesca,”  said  Gouache;  “  and  then  I  would  like  to  hear  what 
he  thinks  of  you.” 

“  I  can  tell  you  both,”  answered  Del  Ferice.  “  I  think  of 
him  that  he  is  a  thorough  aristocrat,  full  of  prejudices  and 
money,  unwilling  to  sacrifice  his  convictions  to  his  wealth  or 
his  wealth  to  his  convictions,  intelligent  in  regard  to  his  own 


68 


SARACINESCA. 


interests  and  blind  to  those  of  others,  imbued  with  a  thousand 
and  one  curious  feudal  notions,  and  overcome  with  a  sense  oi 
his  own  importance.” 

“  And  what  does  he  think  of  you  ?  ”  asked  Anastase,  working 
busily. 

“  Oh,  it  is  very  simple,”  returned  Del  Ferice,  with  a  laugh. 
“  He  thinks  I  am  a  great  scoundrel.” 

“  Really  !  How  strange  !  I  should  not  have  said  that.” 

“  What  ?  That  Del  Ferice  is  a  scoundrel  ?  ”  asked  Donna 
Tullia,  laughing. 

“  No;  I  should  not  have  said  it,”  repeated  Anastase,  thought¬ 
fully.  “  I  should  say  that  our  friend  Del  Ferice  is  a  man  of 
the  most  profound  philanthropic  convictions,  nobly  devoting 
his  life  to  the  pursuit  of  liberty,  fraternity,  and  equality.” 

“  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  ”  asked  Donna  Tullia,  with  a  half¬ 
comic  glance  at  Ugo,  who  looked  uncommonly  grave. 

“  Madame,”  returned  Gouache,  “  I  never  permit  myself  to 
think  otherwise  of  any  of  my  friends.” 

“Upon  my  word,”  remarked  Del  Ferice,  “I  am  delighted  at 
the  compliment,  my  dear  fellow,  but  I  must  infer  that  your 
judgment  of  your  friends  is  singularly  limited.” 

“  Perhaps,”  answered  Gouache.  “  But  the  number  of  my 
friends  is  not  large,  and  I  myself  am  very  enthusiastic.  I  look 
forward  to  the  day  when  ‘  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity  *  shall 
be  inscribed  in  letters  of  flame,  in  the  most  expensive  Bengal 
lights  if  you  please,  over  the  porte-cochere  of  every  palace  in 
Rome,  not  to  mention  the  churches.  I  look  forward  to  that 
day,  but  I  have  not  the  slightest  expectation  of  ever  seeing  it. 
Moreover,  if  it  ever  comes,  I  will  pack  up  my  palette  and 
brushes  and  go  somewhere  else  by  the  nearest  route.” 

“  Good  heavens,  Gouache  !  ”  exclaimed  Donna  Tullia  ;  “how 
can  you  talk  like  that?  It  is  really  dreadfully  irreverent  to 
jest  about  our  most  sacred  convictions,  or  to  say  that  we  desire 
to  see  those  words  written  over  the  doors  of  our  churches  !” 

“I  am  not  jesting.  I  worship  Victor  Hugo.  I  love  to  dream 
of  the  universal  republic — it  has  immense  artistic  attractions — 
the  fierce  yelling  crowd,  the  savage  faces,  the  red  caps,  the  ter¬ 
rible  maenad  women  urging  the  brawny  ruffians  on  to  shed  more 
blood,  the  lurid  light  of  burning  churches,  the  pale  and  trem¬ 
bling  victims  dragged  beneath  the  poised  knife, — ah,  it  is 
superb,  it  has  stupendous  artistic  capabilities  !  But  for  my¬ 
self — bah  !  I  am  a  good  Catholic — I  wish  nobody  any  harm,  for 
life  is  very  gay  after  all.” 

At  this  remarkable  exposition  of  Anastase  Gouache’s  views 
in  regard  to  the  utility  of  revolutions,  Del  Ferice  laughed 
loudly  ;  but  Anastase  remained  perfectly  grave,  for  he  was  pei% 


SARACINESCA. 


69 


fectly  sincere.  Del  Ferice,  to  whom  the  daily  whispered  talk 
of  revolution  in  Donna  Tullia’s  circle  was  mere  child’s  play, 
was  utterly  indifferent,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  amused  by 
the  young  artist’s  vagaries.  But  Donna  Tullia,  who  longed  to 
see  herself  the  centre  of  a  real  plot,  thought  that  she  was  being 
laughed  at,  and  pouted  her  red  lips  and  frowned  her  displeasure. 

“  I  believe  you  have  no  convictions  !  ”  she  said  angrily. 
“  While  we  are  risking  our  lives  and  fortunes  for  the  good 
cause,  you  sit  here  in  your  studio  dreaming  of  barricades  and 
guillotines,  merely  as  subjects  for  pictures — you  even  acknow¬ 
ledge  that  in  case  we  produce  a  revolution  you  would  go  away.” 

“Not  without  finishing  this  portrait,”  returned  Anastase, 
quite  unmoved.  “  It  is  an  exceedingly  good  likeness  ;  and  in 
case  you  should  ever  disappear — you  know  people  sometimes 
do  in  revolutions — or  if  by  any  unlucky  accident  your  beautiful 
neck  should  chance  beneath  that  guillotine  you  just  mentioned, 
— why,  then,  this  canvas  would  be  the  most  delightful  souvenir 
of  many  pleasant  mornings,  would  it  not  ?  ” 

“  You  are  incorrigible,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  with  a  slight 
laugh.  “  You  cannot  be  serious  for  a  moment.” 

“  It  is  very  hard  to  paint  you  when  your  expression  changes 
so  often,”  replied  Anastase,  calmly. 

“  I  am  not  in  a  good  humour  for  sitting  to  you  this  morning. 
I  wish  you  would  amuse  me,  Del  Ferice.  You  generally  can.” 

“  I  thought  politics  amused  you - ” 

“  They  interest  me.  But  Gouache’s  ideas  are  detestable.” 

“Will  you  not  give  us  some  of  your  own,  Madame?”  in¬ 
quired  the  painter,  stepping  back  from  his  canvas  to  get  a  bet¬ 
ter  view  of  his  work. 

“  Oh,  mine  are  very  simple,”  answered  Donna  Tullia.  “  Vic¬ 
tor  Emmanuel,  Garibaldi,  and  a  free  press.” 

“  A  combination  of  monarchy,  republicanism,  and  popular 
education — not  very  interesting,”  remarked  Gouache,  still  eye¬ 
ing  his  picture. 

“No;  there  would  be  nothing  for  you  to  paint,  except  por¬ 
traits  of  the  liberators - ” 

“  There  is  a  great  deal  of  that  done.  I  have  seen  them  in 
every  cafe  in  the  north  of  Italy,”  interrupted  the  artist.  “  I 
would  like  to  paint  Garibaldi.  He  has  a  fine  head.” 

“  I  will  ask  him  to  sit  to  you  when  he  comes  here.” 

“  When  he  comes  I  shall  be  here  no  longer,”  answered  Gou¬ 
ache.  “  They  will  whitewash  the  Corso,  they  will  make  a  res¬ 
taurant  of  the  Colosseum,  and  they  will  hoist  the  Italian  flag 
on  the  cross  of  St.  Peter’s.  Then  I  will  go  to  Constantinople ; 
there  will  still  be  some  years  before  Turkey  is  modernised.” 

“  Artists  are  hopeless  people,”  said  Del  Ferice.  “  They  are 


70 


SARACINESCA. 


utterly  illogical,  and  it  is  impossible  to  deal  with  them.  If  you 
like  old  cities,  why  do  you  not  like  old  women  ?  Why  would 
you  not  rather  paint  Donna  Tullia's  old  Countess  than  Donna 
Tullia  herself  ?  ” 

“  That  is  precisely  the  opposite  case,”  replied  Anastase, 
quietly.  “The  works  of  man  are  never  so  beautiful  as  when 
they  are  falling  to  decay;  the  works  of  God  are  most  beautiful 
when  they  are  young.  You  might  as  well  say  that  because  wine 
improves  with  age,  therefore  horses  do  likewise.  The  faculty 
of  comparison  is  lacking  in  your  mind,  my  dear  Del  Ferice,  as 
it  is  generally  lacking  in  the  minds  of  true  patriots.  Great 
reforms  and  great  revolutions  are  generally  brought  about  by 
people  of  fierce  and  desperate  convictions,  like  yours,  who  go  to 
extreme  lengths,  and  never  know  when  to  stop.  The  quintes¬ 
sence  of  an  artist's  talent  is  precisely  that  faculty  of  comparison, 
that  gift  of  knowing  when  the  thing  he  is  doing  corresponds 
as  nearly  as  he  can  make  it  with  the  thing  he  has  imagined.” 

There  was  no  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  Gouache's  voice  as  he  im¬ 
puted  to  Del  Ferice  the  savage  enthusiasm  of  a  revolutionist. 
But  when  Gouache,  who  was  by  no  means  calm  by  nature,  said 
anything  in  a  particularly  gentle  tone,  there  was  generally  a 
sting  in  it,  and  Del  Ferice  reflected  upon  the  mean  traffic  in 
stolen  information  by  which  he  got  his  livelihood,  and  was 
ashamed.  Somehow,  too,  Donna  Tullia  felt  that  the  part  she 
fancied  herself  .playing  was  contemptible  enough  when  com¬ 
pared  with  the  hard  work,  the  earnest  purpose,  and  the  re¬ 
markable  talent  of  the  young  artist.  But  though  she  felt  her 
inferiority,  she  would  have  died  rather  than  own  it,  even  to  Del 
Ferice.  She  knew  that  for  months  she  had  talked  with  Del 
Ferice,  with  Yaldarno,  with  Oasalverde,  even  with  the  melan¬ 
choly  and  ironical  Spicca,  concerning  conspiracies  and  deeds  of 
darkness  of  all  kinds,  and  she  knew  that  she  and  they  might  go 
on  talking  for  ever  in  the  same  strain  without  producing  the 
smallest  effect  on  events;  but  she  never  to  the  very  end  relin¬ 
quished  the  illusion  she  cherished  so  dearly,  that  she  was  really 
and  truly  a  conspirator,  and  that  if  any  one  of  her  light-headed 
acquaintance  betrayed  the  next,  they  might  all  be  ordered  out 
of  Rome  in  four-and-twenty  hours,  or  might  even  disappear 
into  that  long  range  of  dark  buildings  to  the  left  of  the  colon¬ 
nade  of  St.  Peter’s,  martyrs  to  the  cause  of  their  own  self-im¬ 
portance  and  semi-theatrical  vanity.  There  were  many  knots 
of  such  self-fancied  conspirators  in  those  days,  whose  wildest 
deed  of  daring  was  to  whisper  across  a  glass  of  champagne  in 
a  ball-room,  or  over  a  tumbler  of  Velletri  wine  in  a  Trasteve- 
rine  cellar,  the  magic  and  awe-inspiring  words,  “  Viva  Garibaldi  1 
Viva  Vittorio  !  ”  They  accomplished  nothing.  The  same  men 


SARACIKESCA. 


n 


and  women  are  now  grumbling  and  regretting  the  flesh-pots  of 
the  old  Government,  or  whispering  in  impotent  discontent 
“  Viva  la  Repubblica  ! 99  and  they  and  their  descendants  will  go 
on  whispering  something  to  each  other  to  the  end  of  time, 
while  mightier  hands  than  theirs  are  tearing  down  empires  and 
building  up  irresistible  coalitions,  and  drawing  red  pencil-marks 
through  the  geography  of  Europe. 

The  conspirators  of  those  days  accomplished  nothing  after 
Pius  IX.  returned  from  Gaeta;  the  only  men  who  were  of  any 
use  at  all  were  those  who,  like  Del  Ferice,  had  sources  of  secret 
information,  and  basely  sold  their  scraps  of  news.  But  even 
they  were  of  small  importance.  The  moment  had  not  come, 
and  all  the  talking  and  whispering  and  tale-bearing  in  the 
world  could  not  hasten  events,  nor  change  their  course.  But 
Donna  Tullia  was  puffed  up  with  a  sense  of  her  importance, 
and  Del  Ferice  managed  to  attract  just  as  much  attention  to 
his  harmless  chatter  about  progress  as  would  permit  him  un¬ 
disturbed  to  carry  on  his  lucrative  traffic  in  secret  information. 

Donna  Tullia,  who  was  not  in  the  least  artistic,  and  who  by 
no  means  appreciated  the  merits  of  the  portrait  Gouache  was 
painting,  was  very  far  from  comprehending  his  definition  of 
artistic  comparison;  but  Del  Ferice  understood  it  very  well. 
Donna  Tullia  had  much  foreign  blood  in  her  veins,  like  most  of 
her  class ;  but  Del  Ferice’s  obscure  descent  was  in  all  probabil¬ 
ity  purely  Italian,  and  he  had  inherited  the  common  instinct 
in  matters  of  art  which  is  a  part  of  the  Italian  birthright.  He 
had  recognised  Gouache’s  wonderful  talent,  and  had  first 
brought  Donna  Tullia  to  his  studio — a  matter  of  little  difficulty 
when  she  had  learned  that  the  young  artist  had  already  a  repu¬ 
tation.  It  pleased  her  to  fancy  that  by  telling  him  to  paint  her 
portrait  she  might  pose  as  his  patroness,  and  hereafter  reap  the 
reputation  of  having  influenced  his  career.  For  fashion,  and 
the  desire  to  be  the  representative  of  fashion,  led  Donna  Tullia 
hither  and  thither  as  a  lapdog  is  led  by  a  string;  and  there  is 
nothing  more  in  the  fashion  than  to  patronise  a  fashionable 
portrait-painter. 

But  after  Anastase  Gouache  had  thus  delivered  himself  of 
his  views  upon  Del  Ferice  and  the  faculty  of  artistic  compari¬ 
son,  the  conversation  languished,  and  Donna  Tullia  grew  rest¬ 
less.  “  She  had  sat  enough,”  she  said ;  and  as  her  expression 
was  not  favourable  to  the  portrait,  Anastase  did  not  contradict 
her,  but  presently  suffered  her  to  depart  in  peace  with  her  de¬ 
voted  adorer  at  her  heels.  And  when  they  were  gone,  Anastase 
lighted  a  cigarette,  and  took  a  piece  of  charcoal  and  sketched 
a  caricature  of  Donna  Tullia  in  a  liberty  cap,  in  a  fine  theat¬ 
rical  attitude,  invoking  the  aid  of  Del  Ferice,  who  appeared  as 


72 


SARACINESCA. 


the  Angel  of  Death,  with  the  guillotine  in  the  background. 
Having  put  the  finishing  touches  to  this  work  of  art,  Anastase 
locked  his  studio  and  went  to  breakfast,  humming  an  air  from 
the  “  Belle  Helene.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

When  Corona  reached  home  she  went  to  her  own  small  bou¬ 
doir,  with  the  intention  of  remaining  there  for  an  hour  if  she 
could  do  so  without  being  disturbed.  There  was  a  prospect  of 
this;  for  on  inquiry  she  ascertained  that  her  husband  was  not 
yet  dressed,  and  his  dressing  took  a  very  long  time.  He  had  a 
cosmopolitan  valet,  who  alone  of  living  men  understood  the 
art  of  fitting  the  artificial  and  the  natural  Astrardente  together. 
Corona  believed  this  man  to  be  an  accomplished  scoundrel;  but 
she  never  had  any  proof  that  he  was  anything  worse  than  a 
very  clever  servant,  thoroughly  unscrupulous  where  his  master’s 
interests  or  his  own  were  concerned.  The  old  Duca  believed 
in  him  sincerely  and  trusted  him  alone,  feeling  that  since  he 
could  never  be  a  hero  in  his  valet’s  eyes,  he  might  as  well  take 
advantage  of  that  misfortune  in  order  to  gain  a  confidant. 

Corona  found  three  or  four  letters  upon  her  table,  and  sat 
down  to  read  them,  letting  her  fur  mantle  drop  to  the  floor, 
and  putting  her  small  feet  out  towards  the  fire,  for  the  pave¬ 
ment  of  the  church  had  been  cold. 

She  was  destined  to  pass  an  eventful  day,  it  seemed.  One 
of  the  letters  was  from  Giovanni  Saracinesca.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  written  to  her,  and  she  was  greatly  surprised 
on  finding  his  name  at  the  foot  of  the  page.  He  wrote  a  strong 
clear  handwriting,  entirely  without  adornment  of  penmanship, 
close  and  regular  and  straight :  there  was  an  air  of  determina¬ 
tion  about  it  which  was  sympathetic,  and  a  conciseness  of 
expression  which  startled  Corona,  as  though  she  had  heard  the 
man  himself  speaking  to  her. 

“  I  write,  dear  Duchessa,  because  I  covet  your  good  opinion, 
and  my  motive  is  therefore  before  all  things  an  interested  one. 
I  would  not  have  you  think  that  I  had  idly  asked  your  advice 
about  a  thing  so  important  to  me  as  my  marriage,  in  order  to 
discard  your  counsel  at  the  first  opportunity.  There  was  too 
much  reason  in  the  view  you  took  of  the  matter  to  admit  of 
my  not  giving  your  opinion  all  the  weight  I  could,  even  if  I 
had  not  already  determined  upon  the  very  course  you  advised. 
Circumstances  have  occurred,  however,  which  have  almost  in¬ 
duced  me  to  change  my  mind.  I  have  had  an  interview  with 
my  father,  who  has  put  the  matter  very  plainly  before  me.  I 
hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  this,  but  I  feel  that  I  owe  it  to  you 


SARACIN  ESC  A. 


73 


to  explain  myself,  however  much  you  may  despise  me  for  what 
I  am  going  to  say.  It  is  very  simple,  nevertheless.  My  father 
has  informed  me  that  by  my  conduct  I  have  caused  my  name 
to  be  coupled  in  the  mouth  of  the  gossips  with  that  of  a  person 
very  dear  to  me,  but  whom  I  am  unfortunately  prevented  from 
marrying.  He  has  convinced  me  that  I  owe  to  this  lady,  who, 
I  confess,  takes  no  interest  whatever  in  me,  the  only  reparation 
possible  to  be  made — that  of  taking  a  wife,  and  thus  publicly 
demonstrating  that  there  was  never  any  truth  in  what  has  been 
said.  As  a  marriage  will  probably  be  forced  upon  me  some 
day,  it  is  as  well  to  let  things  take  their  course  at  once,  in  order 
that  a  step  so  disagreeable  to  myself  may  at  least  distantly 
profit  one  whom  I  love  in  removing  me  from  the  appearance  of 
being  a  factor  in  her  life.  The  gossip  about  me  has  never 
reached  your  ears,  but  if  it  should,  you  will  be  the  better  able 
to  understand  my  position. 

“  Do  not  think,  therefore,  that  if  I  do  not  follow  your  advice 
I  am  altogether  inconsistent,  or  that  I  wantonly  presumed  to 
consult  you  without  any  intention  of  being  guided  by  you. 
Forgive  me  also  this  letter,  which  I  am  impelled  to  write  from 
somewhat  mean  motives  of  vanity,  in  the  hope  of  not  altogether 
forfeiting  your  opinion;  and  especially  I  beg  you  to  believe 
that  I  am  at  all  times  the  most  obedient  of  your  servants, 

“  Giovanni  Saracinesca.” 

Of  what  use  was  it  that  she  had  that  morning  determined  to 
forget  Giovanni,  since  he  had  the  power  of  thus  bringing  him¬ 
self  before  her  by  means  of  a  scrap  of  paper  ?  Corona’s  hand 
closed  upon  the  letter  convulsively,  and  for  a  moment  the  room 
seemed  to  swim  around  her. 

So  there  was  some  one  whom  he  loved,  some  one  for  whose 
fair  name  he  was  willing  to  sacrifice  himself  even  to  the  extent 
of  marrying  against  his  will.  Some  one,  too,  who  not  only  did 
not  love  him,  but  took  no  interest  whatever  in  him.  Those 
were  his  own  words,  and  they  must  be  true,  for  he  never  lied. 
That  accounted  for  his  accompanying  Donna  Tullia  to  the  pic¬ 
nic.  He  was  going  to  marry  her  after  all.  To  save  the  woman 
he  loved  so  hopelessly  from  the  mere  suspicion  of  being  loved 
by  him,  he  was  going  to  tie  himself  for  life  to  the  first  who 
would  marry  him.  That  would  never  prevent  the  gossips  from 
saying  that  he  loved  this  other  woman  as  much  as  ever.  It 
could  do  her  no  great  harm,  since  she  took  no  interest  whatever 
in  him.  Who  could  she  be,  this  cold  creature,  whom  even 
Giovanni  could  not  move  to  interest  ?  It  was  absurd — the 
letter  was  absurd — the  whole  thing  was  absurd  !  None  but  a 
madman  would  think  of  pursuing  such  a  course;  and  why 
should  he  think  it  necessary  to  confide  his  plans — his  very  fool- 


74 


SARACINESCA. 


ish  plans — to  her,  Corona  d'Astrardente, — why  ?  Ah,  Giovanni, 
how  different  things  might  have  been  ! 

Corona  rose  angrily  from  her  seat  and  leaned  against  the 
broad  chimney-piece,  and  looked  at  the  clock — it  was  nearly 
mid-day.  He  might  marry  whom  he  pleased,  and  be  welcome — 
what  was  it  to  her  ?  He  might  marry  and  sacrifice  himself  if 
he  pleased — what  was  it  to  her  ? 

She  thought  of  her  own  life.  She,  too,  had  sacrificed  herself; 
she,  too,  had  tied  herself  for  life  to  a  man  she  despised  in  her 
heart,  and  she  had  done  it  for  an  object  she  had  thought  good. 
She  looked  steadily  at  the  clock,  for  she  would  not  give  way, 
nor  bend  her  head  and  cry  bitter  tears  again;  but  the  tears 
were  in  her  eyes,  nevertheless. 

“ Giovanni,  you  must  not  do  it — you  must  not  do  it! ”  Her 
lips  formed  the  words  without  speaking  them,  and  repeated  the 
thought  again  and  again.  Her  heart  beat  fast  and  her  cheeks 
flushed  darkly.  She  spread  out  the  crumpled  letter  and  read  it 
once  more.  As  she  read,  the  most  intense  curiosity  seized  her 
to  know  who  this  woman  might  be  whom  Giovanni  so  loved; 
and  with  her  curiosity  there  was  a  new  feeling — an  utterly 
hateful  and  hating  passion — something  so  strong,  that  it  sud¬ 
denly  dried  her  tears  and  sent  the  blood  from  her  cheeks  back 
to  her  heart.  Her  white  hand  was  clenched,  and  her  eyes  were 
on  fire.  Ah,  if  she  could  only  find  that  woman  he  loved !  if 
she  could  only  see  her  dead — dead  with  Giovanni  Saracinesca 
there  upon  the  floor  before  her!  As  she  thought  of  it,  she 
stamped  her  foot  upon  the  thick  carpet,  and  her  face  grew 
paler.  She  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  she  felt,  but  it  com¬ 
pletely  overmastered  her.  Padre  Filippo  would  be  pleased,  she 
thought,  for  she  knew  how  in  that  moment  she  hated  Giovanni 
Saracinesca. 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  again  sat  down  and  opened  the 
letter  next  to  her  hand.  It  was  a  gossiping  epistle  from  a  friend 
in  Paris,  full  of  stories  of  the  day,  exclamations  upon  fashion 
and  all  kinds  of  emptiness;  she  was  about  to  throw  it  down 
impatiently  and  take  up  the  next  when  her  eyes  caught 
Giovanni’s  name. 

“  Of  course  it  is  not  true  that  Saracinesca  is  to  marry  Madame 
Mayer,  ...”  were  the  words  she  read.  But  that  was  all.  There 
chanced  to  have  been  just  room  for  the  sentence  at  the  foot  of 
the  page,  and  by  the  time  her  friend  had  turned  over  the  leaf, 
she  had  already  forgotten  what  she  had  written,  and  was  run¬ 
ning  on  with  a  different  idea.  It  seemed  as  though  Corona 
were  haunted  by  Giovanni  at  every  turn;  but  she  had  not 
reached  the  end  yet,  for  one  letter  still  remained.  She  tore 
open  the  envelope,  and  found  that  the  contents  consisted  of  a 
few  lines  penned  in  a  small  and  irregular  hand,  without  signa- 


SARACINESCA. 


75 


ture.  There  was  an  air  of  disguise  about  the  whole,  which  was 
unpleasant;  it  was  written  upon  a  common  sort  of  paper,  and 
had  come  through  the  city  post.  It  ran  as  follows 

“  The  Duchessa  d’Astrardente  reminds  us  of  the  fable  of  the 
dog  in  the  horse’s  manger,  for  she  can  neither  eat  herself  nor 
let  others  eat.  She  will  not  accept  Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca’s 
devotion,  but  she  effectually  prevents  him  from  fulfilling  his 
engagements  to  others.” 

If  Corona  had  been  in  her  ordinary  mood,  she  would  very 
likely  have  laughed  at  the  anonymous  communication.  She  had 
formerly  received  more  than  one  passionate  declaration,  not 
signed  indeed,  but  accompanied  always  by  some  clue  to  the 
identity  of  the  writer,  and  she  had  carelessly  thrown  them  into 
the  fire.  But  there  was  no  such  indication  here  whereby  she 
might  discover  who  it  was  who  had  undertaken  to  criticise  her, 
to  cast  upon  her  so  unjust  an  accusation.  Moreover,  she  was 
very  angry  and  altogether  thrown  out  of  her  usually  calm 
humour.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  go  to  her  husband,  and  in 
the  strength  of  her  innocence  to  show  him  the  letter.  Then  she 
laughed  bitterly  as  she  thought  how  the  selfish  old  dandy  would 
scoff  at  her  sensitiveness,  and  how  utterly  incapable  he  would  be 
of  discovering  the  offender  or  of  punishing  the  offence.  Then 
again  her  face  was  grave,  and  she  asked  herself  whether  it  was 
true  that  she  was  innocent;  whether  she  were  not  really  to  be 
blamed,  if  perhaps  she  had  really  prevented  Giovanni  from 
marrying  Donna  Tullia. 

But  if  that  were  true,  she  must  herself  be  the  woman  he 
spoke  of  in  his  letter.  Any  other  woman  would  have  suspected 
as  much.  Corona  went  to  the  window,  and  for  an  instant  there 
was  a  strange  light  of  pleasure  in  her  face.  Then  she  grew 
very  thoughtful,  and  her  whole  mood  changed.  She  could  not 
conceive  it  possible  that  Giovanni  so  loved  her  as  to  marry  for 
her  sake.  Besides,  no  one  could  ever  have  breathed  a  word  of 
him  in  connection  with  herself — until  this  abominable  anony¬ 
mous  letter  was  written. 

The  thought  that  she  might,  after  all,  be  the  “  person  very 
dear  to  him,”  the  one  who  “took  no  interest  whatever  in  him,” 
had  nevertheless  crossed  her  mind,  and  had  given  her  for  one 
moment  a  sense  of  wild  and  indescribable  pleasure.  Then  she 
remembered  what  she  had  felt  before;  how  angry,  how  utterly 
beside  herself,  she  had  been  at  the  thought  of  another  woman 
being  loved  by  him,  and  she  suddenly  understood  that  she  was 
-jealous  of  her.  The  very  thought  revived  in  her  the  belief  that 
it  was  not  she  herself  who  was  thus  influencing  the  life  of 
Giovanni  Saracinesca,  but  another,  and  she  sat  silent  and  pale. 

Of  course  it  was  another !  What  had  she  done,  what  word 
had  she  spoken,  whereby  the  world  might  pretend  to  believe 


76 


SARACINESCA. 


that  she  controlled  this  man’s  actions  ?  “  Fulfilling  his  engage¬ 
ments,”  the  letter  said,  too.  It  must  have  been  written  by  an 
ignorant  person — by  some  one  who  had  no  idea  of  what  was 
passing,  and  who  wrote  at  random,  hoping  to  touch  a  sensitive 
chord,  to  do  some  harm,  to  inflict  some  pain,  in  petty  vengeance 
for  a  fancied  slight.  But  in  her  heart,  though  she  crushed 
down  the  instinct,  she  would  have  believed  the  anonymous  jest 
well  founded,  for  the  sake  of  believing,  too,  that  Giovanni 
Saracinesca  was  ready  to  lay  his  life  at  her  feet — although  in 
that  belief  she  would  have  felt  that  she  was  committing  a  mor¬ 
tal  sin. 

She  went  back  to  her  interview  that  morning  with  Padre 
Filippo,  and  thought  over  all  she  had  said  and  all  he  had 
answered ;  how  she  had  been  willing  to  admit  the  possibility  of 
Giovanni’s  love,  and  how  sternly  the  confessor  had  ruled  down 
the  clause,  and  told  her  there  should  never  arise  such  a  doubt  in 
her  mind;  how  she  had  scorned  herself  for  being  capable  of 
seeking  love  where  there  was  none,  and  how  she  had  sworn  that 
there  should  be  no  perhaps  in  the  matter.  It  seemed  very  hard 
to  do  right,  but  she  would  try  to  see  where  the  right  lay.  In 
the  first  place,  she  should  burn  the  anonymous  letter,  and  never 
condescend  to  think  of  it;  and  she  should  also  burn  Giovanni’s, 
because  it  would  be  an  injustice  to  him  to  keep  it.  She  looked 
once  more  at  the  unsigned,  ill-written  page,  and,  with  a  little 
scornful  laugh,  threw  it  from  where  she  sat  into  the  fire  with 
its  envelope;  then  she  took  Giovanni’s  note,  and  would  have 
done  the  same,  but  her  hand  trembled,  and  the  crumpled  bit  of 
paper  fell  upon  the  hearth.  She  rose  from  her  chair  quickly, 
and  took  it  up  again,  kneeling  before  the  fire,  like  some  beautb 
ful  dark  priestess  of  old  feeding  the  flames  of  a  sacred  altar. 
She  smoothed  the  paper  out  once  more,  and  once  more  read 
the  even  characters,  and  looked  long  at  the  signature,  and  back 
again  to  the  writing. 

“This  lady,  who,  I  confess,  takes  no  interest  whatever  in 
me.  .  .  .” 

“How  could  he  say  it  !”  she  exclaimed  aloud.  “Oh,  if  I 
knew  who  she  was  !  ”  With  an  impatient  movement  she  thrust 
the  letter  among  the  coals,  and  watched  the  fire  curl  it  and 
burn  it,  from  white  to  brown  and  from  brown  to  black,  till  it 
was  all  gone.  Then  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  left  the  room. 

Her  husband  certainly  did  not  guess  that  the  Ducliessa 
d’Astrardente  had  spent  so  eventful  a  morning;  and  if  any  one 
had  told  him  that  his  wife  had  been  through  a  dozen  stages  of 
emotion,  he  would  have  laughed,  and  would  have  told  his  in¬ 
formant  that  Corona  was  not  of  the  sort  who  experience  violent 
passions.  That  evening  they  went  to  the  opera  together,  and 
the  old  man  was  in  an  unusually  cheerful  humour.  A  new 


SARACINESCA. 


77 


coat  had  just  arrived  from  Paris,  and  the  padding  had  attained 
a  higher  degree  of  scientific  perfection  than  heretofore.  Corona 
also  looked  more  beautiful  than  even  her  husband  ever  remem¬ 
bered  to  have  seen  her;  she  wore  a  perfectly  simple  gown  of 
black  satin  without  the  smallest  relief  of  colour,  and  upon  her 
neck  the  famous  Astrardente  necklace  of  pearls,  three  strings 
of  even  thickness,  each  jewel  exquisitely  white  and  just  lighted 
in  its  shadow  by  a  delicate  pink  tinge — such  a  necklace  as  an 
empress  might  have  worn.  In  the  raven  masses  of  her  hair 
there  was  not  the  least  ornament,  nor  did  any  flower  enhance 
the  rich  blackness  of  its  silken  coils.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  imagine  greater  simplicity  than  Corona  showed  in  her  dress, 
but  it  would  be  hard  to  conceive  of  any  woman  who  possessed 
by  virtue  of  severe  beauty  a  more  indubitable  right  to  dispense 
with  ornament. 

The  theatre  was  crowded.  There  was  a  performance  of 
“  Norma,”  for  which  several  celebrated  artists  had  been  engaged 
— an  occurrence  so  rare  in  Rome,  that  the  theatre  was  abso¬ 
lutely  full.  The  Astrardente  box  was  upon  the  second  tier, 
just  where  the  amphitheatre  began  to  curve.  There  was  room 
in  it  for  four  or  five  persons  to  see  the  stage. 

The  Duchessa  and  her  husband  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the 
first  act,  and  remained  alone  until  it  was  over.  Corona  was 
extremely  fond  of  “  Norma,”  and  after  she  was  seated  never 
took  her  eyes  from  the  stage.  Astrardente,  on  the  other  hand, 
maintained  his  character  as  a  man  of  no  illusions,  and  swept 
the  house  with  his  small  opera-glass.  The  instrument  itself 
was  like  him,  and  would  have  been  appropriate  for  a  fine  lady 
of  the  First  Empire;  it  was  of  mother-of-pearl,  made  very 
small  and  light,  the  metal-work  upon  it  heavily  gilt  and  orna¬ 
mented  with  turquoises.  The  old  man  glanced  from  time  to 
time  at  the  stage,  and  then  again  settled  himself  to  the  study 
of  the  audience,  which  interested  him  far  more  than  the  opera. 

“  Every  human  being  you  ever  heard  of  is  here,”  he  remarked 
at  the  end  of  the  first  act.  “  Really  I  should  think  you  would 
find  it  worth  while  to  look  at  your  magnificent  fellow-creatures, 
my  dear.” 

Corona  looked  slowly  round  the  house.  She  had  excellent 
eyes,  and  never  used  a  glass.  She  saw  the  same  faces  she  had 
seen  for  five  years,  the  same  occasional  flash  of  beauty,  the 
same  average  number  of  over-dressed  women,  the  same  paint, 
the  same  feathers,  the  same  jewels.  She  saw  opposite  to  her 
Madame  Mayer,  with  the  elderly  countess  whom  she  patronised 
for  the  sake  of  deafness,  and  found  convenient  as  a  sort  of 
flying  chaperon.  The  countess  could  not  hear  much  of  the 
music,  but  she  was  fond  of  the  world  and  liked  to  be  seen,  and 
she  could  not  hear  at  all  what  Del  Ferice  said  in  an  undertone 


78 


SARACINESCA. 


to  Madame  Mayer.  Sufficient  to  her  were  the  good  things  of 
the  day;  the  rest  was  in  no  way  her  business.  There  was  Val- 
darno  in  the  club-box,  with  a  knot  of  other  men  of  his  own 
stamp.  There  were  the  Kocca,  mother  and  daughter  and  son 
— a  boy  of  eighteen — and  a  couple  of  men  in  the  back  of  the 
box.  Everybody  was  there,  as  her  husband  had  said ;  and  as 
she  dropped  her  glance  toward  the  stalls,  she  was  aware  of 
Giovanni  Saracinesca’s  black  eyes  looking  anxiously  up  to  her. 
A  faint  smile  crossed  her  serene  face,  and  almost  involuntarily 
she  nodded  to  him  and  then  looked  away.  Many  men  were 
watching  her,  and  bowed  as  she  glanced  at  them,  and  she  bent 
her  head  to  each;  but  there  was  no  smile  for  any  save  Giovanni, 
and  when  she  looked  again  to  whore  he  had  been  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  stage,  he  was  gone  from  his  place. 

“  They  are  the  same  old  things,”  said  Astrardente,  “but  they 
are  still  very  amusing.  Madame  Mayer  always  seems  to  get  the 
wrong  man  into  her  box.  She  would  give  all  those  diamonds 
to  have  Giovanni  Saracinesca  instead  of  that  newsmonger 
fellow.  If  he  comes  here  I  will  send  him  across.” 

“  Perhaps  she  likes  Del  Ferice,”  suggested  Corona. 

“He  is  a  good  lapdog — a  very  good  dog,”  answered  her 
husband.  “  He  cannot  bite  at  all,  and  his  bark  is  so  soft  that 
you  would  take  it  for  the  mewing  of  a  kitten.  He  fetches  and 
carries  admirably.” 

“Those  are  good  points,  but  not  interesting  ones.  He  is 
very  tiresome  with  his  eternal  puns  and  insipid  compliments, 
and  his  gossip.” 

“  But  he  is  so  very  harmless,”  answered  Astrardente,  with 
compassionate  scorn.  “  He  is  incapable  of  doing  an  injury. 
Donna  Tullia  is  wise  in  adopting  him  as  her  slave.  She  would 
not  be  so  safe  with  Saracinesca,  for  instance.  If  you  feel  the 
need  of  an  admirer,  my  dear,  take  Del  Ferice.  I  have  no 
objection  to  him.” 

“  Why  should  I  need  admirers  ?  ”  asked  Corona,  quietly. 

“  I  was  merely  jesting,  my  love.  Is  not  your  own  husband 
the  greatest  of  your  admirers,  and  your  devoted  slave  into  the 
bargain  ?  ”  Old  Astrardente’s  face  twisted  itself  into  the  sem¬ 
blance  of  a  smile,  as  he  leaned  towards  his  young  wife,  lowering 
his  cracked  voice  to  a  thin  whisper.  He  was  genuinely  in  love 
with  her,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  telling  her  so.  She  smiled 
a  little  wearily. 

“  You  are  very  good  to  me,”  she  said.  She  had  often  won¬ 
dered  how  it  was  that  this  aged  creature,  who  had  never  been 
faithful  to  any  attachment  in  his  life  for  five  months,  did  really 
seem  to  love  her  just  as  he  had  done  for  five  years.  It  was 
perhaps  the  greatest  triumph  she  could  have  attained,  though 
she  never  thought  of  it  in  that  light;  but  though  she  could 


SARACmESCA. 


79 


not  respect  her  husband  very  much,  she  could  not  think  un¬ 
kindly  of  him — for,-  as  she  said,  he  was  very  good  to  her.  She 
often  reproached  herself  because  he  wearied  her;  she  believed 
that  she  should  have  taken  more  pleasure  in  his  admiration. 

“I  cannot  help  being  good  to  you,  my  angel,”  he  said. 
“  How  could  I  be  otherwise  ?  Do  I  not  love  you  most  passion¬ 
ately  ?  ” 

“Indeed,  I  think  so,”  Corona  answered.  As  she  spoke  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Her  heart  leaped  wildly,  and  she 
turned  a  little  pale. 

“The  devil  seize  these  visitors  !”  muttered  old  Astrardente, 
annoyed  beyond  measure  at  being  interrupted  when  making 
love  to  his  wife.  “  I  suppose  we  must  let  them  in  ?  ” 

“I  suppose  so,”  assented  the  Duchessa,  with  forced  calm. 
Her  husband  opened  the  door,  and  Giovanni  Saracinesca 
entered,  hat  in  hand. 

“  Sit  down,”  said  Astrardente,  rather  harshly. 

“  I  trust  I  am  not  disturbing  you,”  replied  Giovanni,  still 
standing.  He  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the  old  man’s  inhos¬ 
pitable  tone. 

“Oh  no;  not  in  the  least,”  said  the  latter,  quickly  regaining 
his  composure.  “Pray  sit  down;  the  act  will  begin  in  a 
moment.” 

Giovanni  established  himself  upon  the  chair  immediately 
behind  the  Duchessa.  He  had  come  to  talk,  and  he  anticipated 
that  during  the  second  act  he  would  have  an  excellent  oppor¬ 
tunity. 

“  I  hear  you  enjoyed  yourselves  yesterday,”  said  Corona,  turn¬ 
ing  her  head  so  as  to  speak  more  easily. 

“Indeed!”  Giovanni  answered,  and  a  shade  of  annoyance 
crossed  his  face.  “  And  who  was  your  informant,  Duchessa  ?  ” 

“Donna  Tullia.  I  met  her  this  morning.  She  said  you 
amused  them  all — kept  them  laughing  the  whole  day.” 

“What  an  extraordinary  statement!”  exclaimed  Giovanni. 
“  It  shows  how  one  may  unconsciously  furnish  matter  for 
mirth.  I  do  not  recollect  having  talked  much  to  any  one.  It 
was  a  noisy  party  enough,  however.” 

“  Perhaps  Donna  Tullia  spoke  ironically,”  suggested  Corona. 
“  Do  you  like  ‘  Norma 9  ?  ” 

“  Oh  yes;  one  opera  is  as  good  as  another.  There  goes  the 
curtain.” 

The  act  began,  and  for  some  minutes  no  one  in  the  box 
spoke.  Presently  there  was  a  burst  of  orchestral  music.  Gio¬ 
vanni  leaned  forward  so  that  his  face  was  close  behind  Corona. 
He  could  speak  without  being  heard  by  Astrardente. 

“  Did  you  receive  my  letter  ?  ”  he  asked.  Corona  made  an 
almost  imperceptible  inclination  of  her  head,  but  did  not  speak. 


80 


SARACINESCA. 


“Do  you  understand  my  position?”  he  asked  again.  He 
could  not  see  her  face,  and  for  some  seconds  she  made  no  sign; 
at  last  she  moved  her  head  again,  but  this  time  to  express  a 
negative. 

“  It  is  simple  enough,  it  seems  to  me,”  said  Giovanni,  bend¬ 
ing  his  brows. 

Corona  found  that  by  turning  a  little  she  could  still  look  at 
the  stage,  and  at  the  same  time  speak  to  the  man  behind  her. 

“  How  can  I  judge  ?  ”  she  said.  “  You  have  not  told  me  all. 
Why  do  you  ask  me  to  judge  whether  you  are  right  ?  ” 

“  I  could  not  do  it  if  you  thought  me  wrong,”  he  answered 
shortly. 

The  Duchessa  suddenly  thought  of  that  other  woman  for 
whom  the  man  who  asked  her  advice  was  willing  to  sacrifice 
his  life. 

“You  attach  an  astonishing  degree  of  importance  to  my 
opinion,”  she  said  very  coldly,  and  turned  her  head  from  him. 

“  There  is  no  one  so  well  able  to  give  an  opinion,”  said  Gio¬ 
vanni,  insisting. 

Corona  was  offended.  She  interpreted  the  speech  to  mean 
that  since  she  had  sacrificed  her  life  to  the  old  man  on  the  op¬ 
posite  side  of  the  box,  she  was  able  to  judge  whether  Giovanni 
would  do  wisely  in  making  a  marriage  of  convenience,  for  the 
sake  of  an  end  which  even  to  her  mind  seemed  visionary.  She 
turned  quickly  upon  him,  and  there  was  an  angry  gleam  in  her 
eyes. 

“  Pray  do  not  introduce  the  subject  of  my  life,”  she  said 
haughtily. 

Giovanni  was  too  much  astonished  to  answer  her  at  once. 
He  had  indeed  not  intended  the  least  reference  to  her  marriage. 

“  You  have  entirely  misunderstood  me,”  he  said  presently. 

“  Then  you  must  express  yourself  more  clearly,”  she  replied. 
She  would  have  felt  very  guilty  to  be  thus  talking  to  Giovanni, 
as  she  would  not  have  talked  before  her  husband,  had  she  not 
felt  that  it  was  upon  Giovanni’s  business,  and  that  the  matter 
discussed  in  no  way  concerned  herself.  As  for  Saracinesca,  he 
was  in  a  dangerous  position,  and  was  rapidly  losing  his  self- 
control.  He  was  too  near  to  her,  his  heart  was  beating  too 
fast,  the  blood  was  throbbing  in  his  temples,  and  he  was  stung 
by  being  misunderstood. 

“  It  is  not  possible  for  me  to  express  myself  more  clearly,” 
he  answered.  “  I  am  suffering  for  having  told  you  too  little 
when  I  dare  not  tell  you  all.  I  make  no  reference  to  your 
marriage  when  I  speak  to  you  of  my  own.  Forgive  me;  I  will 
not  refer  to  the  matter  again.” 

Corona  felt  again  that  strange  thrill,  half  of  pain,  half  of 
pleasure,  and  the  lights  of  the  theatre  seemed  moving  before 


SARACINESCA. 


81 


her  uncertainly,  as  things  look  when  one  falls  from  a  height. 
Almost  unconsciously  she  spoke,  hardly  knowing  that  she 
turned  her  head,  and  that  her  dark  eyes  rested  upon  Giovanni’s 
pale  face. 

“  And  yet  there  must  be  some  reason  why  you  tell  me  that 
little,  and  why  you  do  not  tell  me  more.”  When  she  had 
spoken,  she  would  have  given  all  the  world  to  have  taken  back 
her  words.  It  was  too  late.  Giovanni  answered  in  a  low  thick 
voice  that  sounded  as  though  he  were  choking,  his  face  grew 
white,  and  his  teeth  seemed  almost  to  chatter  as  though  he 
were  cold,  but  his  eyes  shone  like  black  stars  in  the  shadow  of 
the  box. 

“  There  is  every  reason.  You  are  the  woman  I  love.” 

Corona  did  not  move  for  several  seconds,  as  though  not  com¬ 
prehending  what  he  had  said.  Then  she  suddenly  shivered, 
and  her  eyelids  drooped  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  Her 
fingers  relaxed  their  tight  hold  upon  her  fan,  and  the  thing  fell 
rattling  upon  the  floor  of  the  box. 

Old  Astrardente,  who  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  pair,  being 
annoyed  at  Giovanni’s  visit,  and  much  interested  in  the  pro¬ 
ceedings  of  Madame  Mayer  in  the  box  opposite,  heard  the  noise, 
and  stooped  with  considerable  alacrity  to  pick  up  the  fan  which 
lay  at  his  feet. 

“  You  are  not  well,  my  love,”  he  said  quickly,  as  he  observed 
his  wife’s  unusual  pallor. 

“  It  is  nothing;  it  will  pass,”  she  murmured,  with  a  terrible 
effort.  Then,  as  though  she  had  not  said  enough,  she  added, 
“  There  must  be  a  draught  here;  I  have  a  chill.” 

Giovanni  had  sat  like  a  statue,  utterly  overcome  by  the 
sense  of  his  own  folly  and  rashness,  as  well  as  by  the  shock  of 
having  so  miserably  failed  to  keep  the  secret  he  dreaded  to  re¬ 
veal.  On  hearing  Corona’s  voice,  he  rose  suddenly,  as  from  a 
dream. 

“  Forgive  me,”  he  said  hurriedly,  “  I  have  just  remembered 
a  most  important  engagement - ” 

“Do  not  mention  it,”  said  Astrardente,  sourly.  Giovanni 
bowed  to  the  Duchessa  and  left  the  box.  She  did  not  look  at 
him  as  he  went  away. 

“We  had  better  go  home,  my  angel,”  said  the  old  man. 
“You  have  got  a  bad  chill.” 

“  Oh  no,  I  would  rather  stay.  It  is  nothing,  and  the  best 
part  of  the  opera  is  to  come.”  Corona  spoke  quietly  enough. 
Her  strong  nerves  had  already  recovered  from  the  shock  she 
had  experienced,  and  she  could  command  her  voice.  She  did 
not  want  to  go  home;  on  the  contrary,  the  brilliant  lights  and 
ltd  music  served  for  a  time  to  soothe  her.  If  there  had  been 
a  ball  that  night  she  would  have  gone  to  it;  she  would  have 


82 


SARACINESCA. 


done  anything  that  would  take  her  thoughts  from  herself. 
Her  husband  looked  at  her  curiously.  The  suspicion  crossed 
his  mind  that  Don  Giovanni  had  said  something  which  had 
either  frightened  or  offended  her,  but  on  second  thoughts  the 
theory  seemed  absurd.  He  regarded  Saracinesca  as  little  more 
than  a  mere  acquaintance  of  his  wife’s. 

“  As  you  please,  my  love,”  he  answered,  drawing  his  chair  a 
little  nearer  to  hers.  “  I  am  glad  that  fellow  is  gone.  We  can 
talk  at  our  ease  now.” 

“  Yes;  I  am  glad  he  is  gone.  We  can  talk  now,”  repeated 
Corona,  mechanically. 

“  I  thought  his  excuse  slightly  conventional,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,”  remarked  Astrardente.  “  An  important  engagement ! — 
just  a  little  banal.  However,  any  excuse  was  good  enough 
which  took  him  away.” 

“Did  he  say  that?”  asked  Corona.  “I  did  not  hear.  Of 
course,  any  excuse  would  do,  as  you  say.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Giovanni  left  the  theatre  at  once,  alone,  and  on  foot.  He  was 
very  much  agitated.  He  had  done  suddenly  and  unawares  the 
thing  of  all  others  he  had  determined  never  to  do;  his  resolu¬ 
tions  had  been  broken  down  and  carried  away  as  an  ineffectual 
barrier  is  swept  to  the  sea  by  the  floods  of  spring.  His  heart 
had  spoken  in  spite  of  him,  and  in  speaking  had  silenced  every 
prompting  of  reason.  He  blamed  himself  bitterly,  as  he  strode 
out  across  the  deserted  bridge  of  Sant’  Angelo  and  into  the 
broad  gloom  beyond,  where  the  street  widens  from  the  fortress 
to  the  entrance  of  the  three  Borghi:  he  walked  on  and  on, 
finding  at  every  step  fresh  reason  for  self-reproach,  and  trying 
to  understand  what  he  had  done.  He  paused  at  the  end  of 
the  open  piazza  and  looked  down  towards  the  black  rushing 
river  which  he  could  hear,  but  hardly  see;  he  turned  into  the 
silent  Borgo  Santo  Spirito,  and  passed  along  the  endless  wall 
of  the  great  hospital  up  to  the  colonnades,  and  still  wandering 
on,  he  came  to  the  broad  steps  of  St.  Peter’s  and  sat  down, 
alone  in  the  darkness,  at  the  foot  of  the  stupendous  pile. 

He  was  perhaps  not  so  much  to  blame  as  he  was  willing  to 
allow  in  his  just  anger  against  himself.  Corona  had  tempted 
him  sorely  in  that  last  question  she  had  put  to  him.  She  had 
not  known,  she  had  not  even  faintly  guessed  what  she  was  doing, 
for  her  own  brain  was  intoxicated  with  a  new  and  indescribable 
sensation  which  had  left  no  room  for  reflection  nor  for  weigh¬ 
ing  the  force  of  words.  But  Giovanni,  who  had  been  willing  to 
give  up  everything,  even  to  his  personal  liberty,  for  the  sake  of 


SARACHSTESCA. 


83 


concealing  his  love,  would  not  allow  himself  any  argument  in 
extenuation  of  what  he  had  done.  He  had  had  but  very  few 
affairs  of  the  heart  in  his  life,  and  they  had  been  for  the  most 
part  very  insignificant,  and  his  experience  was  limited.  Even 
now  it  never  entered  his  mind  to  imagine  that  Corona  would 
condone  his  offence;  he  felt  sure  that  she  was  deeply  wounded, 
and  that  his  next  meeting  with  her  would  be  a  terrible  ordeal 
— so  terrible,  indeed,  that  he  doubted  whether  he  had  the  cour¬ 
age  to  meet  her  at  all.  His  love  was  so  great,  and  its  object  so 
sacred  to  him,  that  he  hesitated  to  conceive  himSelf  loved  in 
return;  perhaps  if  he  had  been  able  to  understand  that  Corona 
loved  him  he  would  have  left  Rome  for  ever,  rather  than 
trouble  her  peace  by  his  presence. 

It  would  have  been  absolutely  different  if  he  had  been  pay¬ 
ing  court  to  Donna  Tullia,  for  instance.  The  feeling  that  he 
should  be  justified  would  have  lent  him  courage,  and  the  cold¬ 
ness  in  his  own  heart  would  have  left  his  judgment  free  play. 
He  could  have  watched  her  calmly,  and  would  have  tried  to  take 
advantage  of  every  mood  in  the  prosecution  of  his  suit.  He  was 
a  very  honourable  man,  but  he  did  not  consider  marriages  of 
propriety  and  convenience  as  being  at  all  contrary  to  the  ordi¬ 
nary  standard  of  social  honour,  and  would  have  thought  himself 
justified  in  using  every  means  of  persuasion  in  order  to  win  a 
woman  whom,  upon  mature  reflection,  he  had  judged  suitable 
to  become  his  wife,  even  though  he  felt  no  real  love  for  her. 
That  is  an  idea  inherent  in  most  old  countries,  an  idea  for 
which  Giovanni  Saracinesca  was  certainly  in  no  way  responsi¬ 
ble,  seeing  that  it  had  been  instilled  into  him  from  his  boyhood. 
Personally  he  would  have  preferred  to  live  and  die  unmarried, 
rather  than  to  take  a  wife  as  a  matter  of  obligation  towards  his 
family;  but  seeing  that  he  had  never  seriously  loved  any  woman, 
he  had  acquired  the  habit  of  contemplating  such  a  marriage  as 
a  probability,  perhaps  as  an  ultimate  necessity,  to  be  put  off  as 
long  as  possible,  but  to  which  he  would  at  last  yield  with  a 
good  grace. 

But  the  current  of  his  life  had  been  turned.  He  was  cer¬ 
tainly  not  a  romantic  character,  not  a  man  who  desired  to  ex¬ 
perience  the  external  sensations  to  be  obtained  by  voluntarily 
creating  dramatic  events.  He  loved  action,  and  he  had  a  taste 
for  danger,  but  he  had  sought  both  in  a  legitimate  way;  he 
never  desired  to  implicate  himself  in  adventures  where  the 
feelings  were  concerned,  and  hitherto  such  experiences  had  not 
fallen  in  his  path.  As  is  usual  with  such  men,  when  love  came 
at  last,  it  came  with  a  strength  such  as  boys  of  twenty  do  not 
dream  of.  The  mature  man  of  thirty  years,  with  his  strong 
and  dominant  temper,  his  carelessness  of  danger,  his  high  and 
untried  ideas  of  what  a  true  affection  should  be,  resisting  the 


84 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


first  impressions  of  the  master-passion  with  the  indifference  of 
one  accustomed  to  believe  that  love  could  not  come  near  his 
life,  and  was  in  general  a  thing  to  be  avoided — a  man,  more¬ 
over,  who  by  his  individual  gifts  and  by  his  brilliant  position 
was  able  to  command  much  that  smaller  men  would  not  dream 
of  aspiring  to, — such  a  man,  in  short,  as  Giovanni  Saracinesca, 
— was  not  likely  to  experience  love-sickness  in  a  mild  degree. 
Proud,  despotic,  and  fiercely  unyielding  by  his  inheritance  of 
temper,  he  was  outwardly  gentle  and  courteous  by  acquired 
habit,  a  man  of  those  whom  women  easily  love  and  men  very 
generally  fear. 

He  did  not  realise  his  own  nature,  he  did  not  suspect  the 
extremes  of  feeling  of  which  he  was  eminently  capable.  He 
had  at  first  felt  Corona’s  influence,  and  her  face  and  voice 
seemed  to  awaken  in  him  a  memory,  which  was  as  yet  but  an 
anticipation,  and  not  a  real  remembrance.  It  was  as  the  faint 
perfume  of  the  spring  wafted  up  to  a  prisoner  in  some  stern 
fortress,  as  the  first  gentle  sweetness  that  rose  from  the  en¬ 
chanted  lakes  of  the.  cisalpine  country  to  the  nostrils  of  the 
war-hardened  Goths  as  they  descended  the  last  snow-slopes  in 
their  southern  wandering — an  anticipation  that  seemed  already 
a  memory,  a  looking  forward  again  to  something  that  had  been 
already  loved  in  a  former  state.  Giovanni  had  laughed  at  him¬ 
self  for  it  at  first,  then  he  had  dreaded  its  growing  charm,  and 
at  the  last  he  had  fallen  hopelessly  under  the  spell,  retaining 
only  enough  of  his  former  self  to  make  him  determined  that 
the  harm  which  had  come  upon  himself  should  not  come  near 
this  woman  whom  he  so  adored. 

And  behold,  at  the  first  provocation,  the  very  first  time  that 
by  a  careless  word  she  had  fired  his  blood  and  set  his  brain 
throbbing,  he  had  not  only  been  unable  to  hide  what  he  felt, 
but  had  spoken  such  words  as  he  would  not  have  believed  he 
could  speak — so  bluntly,  so  roughly,  that  she  had  almost 
fainted  before  his  very  eyes. 

She  must  have  been  very  angry,  he  thought.  Perhaps,  too, 
she  was  frightened.  It  was  so  rude,  so  utterly  contrary  to  all 
that  was  chivalrous  to  say  thus  at  the  first  opportunity,  “  I 
love  you” — just  that  and  nothing  more.  Giovanni  had  never 
thought  much  about  it,  but  he  supposed  that  men  in  love,  very 
seriously  in  love,  must  take  a  long  time  to  express  themselves, 
as  is  the  manner  in  books;  whereas  he  was  horrified  at  his  own 
bluntness  in  having  blurted  out  rashly  such  words  as  could 
never  be  taken  back,  as  could  never  even  be  explained  now,  he 
feared,  because  he  had  put  himself  beyond  the  pale  of  all  ex¬ 
planation,  perhaps  beyond  the  reach  of  forgiveness. 

Nobody  ever  yet  explained  away  the  distinct  statement  “I 
love  you,”  upon  any  pretence  of  a  mistake.  Giovanni  almost 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


85 


laughed  at  the  idea,  and  yet  he  conceived  that  some  kind  of 
apology  would  be  necessary,  though  he  could  not  imagine  how 
he  was  to  frame  one.  He  reflected  that  few  women  would  con¬ 
sider  a  declaration,  even  as  sudden  as  his  had  been,  in  the 
light  of  an  insult;  but  he  knew  how  little  cause  Corona  had 
given  him  for  speaking  to  her  of  love,  and  he  judged  from  her 
manner  that  she  had  been  either  offended  or  frightened,  or 
both,  and  that  he  was  to  blame  for  it.  He  was  greatly  dis¬ 
turbed,  and  the  sweat  stood  in  great  drops  upon  his  forehead 
as  he  sat  there  upon  the  steps  of  St.  Peter’s  in  the  cold  night 
wind.  He  remained  nearly  an  hour  without  changing  his  posi¬ 
tion,  and  then  at  last  he  rose  and  slowly  retraced  his  steps,  and 
went  home  by  narrow  streets,  avoiding  the  theatre  and  the 
crowd  of  carriages  that  stood  before  it. 

He  had  almost  determined  to  go  away  for  a  time,  and  to  let 
his  absence  speak  for  his  contrition.  But  he  had  reckoned 
upon  his  former  self,  and  he  doubted  now  whether  he  had  the 
strength  to  leave  Rome.  The  most  that  seemed  possible  was 
that  he  should  keep  out  of  Corona’s  way  for  a  few  days,  until 
she  should  have  recovered  from  the  shock  of  the  scene  in  the 
theatre.  After  that  he  would  go  to  her  and  tell  her  quite 
simply  that  he  was  very  sorry,  but  that  he  had  been  unable  to 
control  himself.  It  would  soon  be  over.  She  would  not  refuse 
to  speak  to  him,  he  argued,  for  fear  of  attracting  the  attention 
of  the  gossips  and  making  an  open  scandal.  She  would  per¬ 
haps  tell  him  to  avoid  her,  and  her  words  would  be  few  and 
haughty,  but  she  would  speak  to  him,  nevertheless. 

Giovanni  went  to  bed.  The  next  day  he  gave  out  that  he 
had  a  touch  of  fever,  and  remained  in  his  own  apartments. 
His  father,  who  was  passionately  attached  to  him,  in  spite  of 
his  rough  temper  and  hasty  speeches,  came  and  spent  most  of 
the  day  with  him,  and  in  the  intervals  of  his  kindly  talk, 
marched  up  and  down  the  room,  swearing  that  Giovanni  was 
no  more  ill  than  he  was  himself,  and  that  he  had  acquired  his 
accursed  habit  of  staying  in  bed  upon  his  travels.  As  Gio¬ 
vanni  had  never  before  been  known  to  spend  twenty-four  hours 
in  bed  for  any  reason  whatsoever,  the  accusation  was  unjust; 
but  he  only  smiled  and  pretended  to  argue  the  case  for  the  sake 
of  pleasing  the  old  prince.  He  really  felt  exceedingly  uncom¬ 
fortable,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  be  left  alone  at  any 
price;  but  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  pretend  to  be  ill  in 
body,  when  he  was  really  sick  at  heart,  and  he  remained  ob¬ 
stinately  in  bed  the  whole  day.  On  the  following  morning  he 
declared  his  intention  of  goiug  out  of  town,  and  by  an  early 
train  he  left  the  city.  No  one  saw  Giovanni  again  until  the 
evening  of  the  Frangipani  ball. 

Meanwhile  it  would  have  surprised  him  greatly  to  know  that 


86 


SARACIITESCA. 


Corona  looked  for  him  in  vain  wherever  she  went,  and  that, 
not  seeing  him,  she  grew  silent  and  pale,  and  gave  short  an¬ 
swers  to  the  pleasant  speeches  men  made  her.  Every  one 
missed  Giovanni.  He  wrote  to  Yaldarno  to  say  that  he  had 
been  suddenly  obliged  to  visit  Saracinesca  in  order  to  see  to 
some  details  connected  with  the  timber  question;  but  every¬ 
body  wondered  why  he  should  have  taken  himself  away  in  the 
height  of  the  season  for  so  trivial  a  matter.  He  had  last  been 
seen  in  the  Astrardente  box  at  the  opera,  where  he  had  only 
stayed  a  few  minutes,  as  Del  Ferice  was  able  to  testify,  having 
sat  immediately  opposite  in  the  box  of  Madame  Mayer.  Del 
Ferice  swore  secretly  that  he  would  find  out  what  was  the 
matter;  and  Donna  Tullia  abused  Giovanni  in  unmeasured 
terms  to  a  circle  of  intimate  friends  and  admirers,  because  he 
had  been  engaged  to  dance  with  her  at  the  Valdarno  cotillon, 
and  had  not  even  sent  word  that  he  could  not  come.  There¬ 
upon  all  the  men  present  immediately  offered  themselves  for 
the  vacant  dance,  and  Donna  Tullia  made  them  draw  lots  by 
tossing  a  copper  sou  in  the  corner  of  the  ball-room.  The  man 
who  won  the  toss  recklessly  threw  over  the  partner  he  had 
already  engaged,  and  almost  had  to  fight  a  duel  in  consequence; 
all  of  which  was  intensely  amusing  to  Donna  Tullia.  Neverthe¬ 
less,  in  her  heart,  she  was  very  angry  at  Giovanni’s  departure. 

But  Corona  sought  him  everywhere,  and  at  last  heard  that  he 
had  left  town,  two  days  after  everybody  else  in  Rome  had 
known  it.  She  would  probably  have  been  very  much  dis¬ 
turbed,  if  she  had  actually  met  him  within  a  day  or  two  of 
that  fatal  evening,  but  the  desire  to  see  him  was  so  great,  that 
she  entirely  overlooked  the  consequences.  For  the  time  being, 
her  whole  life  seemed  to  have  undergone  a  revolution — she 
trembled  at  the  echo  of  the  words  she  had  heard — she  spent 
long  hours  in  solitude,  praying  with  all  her  strength  that  she 
might  be  forgiven  for  having  heard  him  speak;  but  the  mo¬ 
ment  she  left  her  room,  and  went  out  into  the  world,  the  domi¬ 
nant  desire  to  see  him  again  returned.  The  secret  longing  of 
her  soul  was  to  hear  him  speak  again  as  he  had  spoken  once. 
She  would  have  gone  again  to  Padre  Filippo  and  told  him  all; 
but  when  she  was  alone  in  the  solitude  of  her  passionate  pray¬ 
ers  and  self-accusation,  she  felt  that  she  must  fight  this  fight 
alone,  without  help  of  any  one;  and  when  she  was  in  the  world, 
she  lacked  courage  to  put  altogether  from  her  what  was  so  very 
sweet,  and  her  eyes  searched  unceasingly  for  the  dark  face  she 
'loved.  But  the  stirring  strength  of  the  mighty  passion  played 
upon  her  soul  and  body  in  spite  of  her,  as  upon  an  instrument 
of  strings;  and  sometimes  the  music  was  gentle  and  full  of 
sweet  harmony,  but  often  there  were  crashes  of  discord,  so  that 
she  trembled  and  felt  her  heart  wrung  as  by  torture;  then  she 


SARACINESCA. 


87 


set  her  strong  lips,  and  her  white  fingers  wound  themselves  to¬ 
gether,  and  she  could  have  cried  aloud,  but  that  her  pride  for¬ 
bade  her. 

The  days  came  and  went,  but  Giovanni  did  not  return,  and 
Corona’s  face  grew  every  morning  more  pale  and  her  eyes  every 
night  more  wistful.  Her  husband  did  not  understand,  but  he 
saw  that  something  was  the  matter,  as  others  saw  it,  and  in  his 
quick  suspicious  humour  he  connected  the  trouble  in  his  wife’s 
face  with  the  absence  of  Giovanni  and  with  the  strange  chill 
she  had  felt  in  the  theatre.  But  Corona  d’Astrardente  was  a 
very  brave  and  strong  woman,  and  she  bore  what  seemed  to 
her  like  the  agony  of  death  renewed  each  day,  so  calmly  that 
those  who  knew  her  thought  it  was  but  a  passing  indisposition 
or  annoyance,  unusual  with  her,  who  was  never  ill  nor  troubled, 
but  yet  insignificant.  She  gave  particular  attention  to  the 
gown  which  her  husband  had  desired  she  should  wear  at  the 
great  ball,  and  the  need  she  felt  for  distracting  her  mind  from 
her  chief  care  made  society  necessary  to  her. 

The  evening  of  the  Frangipani  ball  came,  and  all  Rome  was 
in  a  state  of  excitement  and  expectation.  The  great  old  family 
had  been  in  mourning  for  years,  owing  to  three  successive 
deaths,  and  during  all  that  time  the  ancient  stronghold  which 
was  called  their  palace  had  been  closed  to  the  world.  For 
some  time,  indeed,  no  one  of  the  name  had  been  in  Rome — the 
prince  and  princess  preferring  to  pass  the  time  of  mourning  in 
the  country  and  in  travelling;  while  the  eldest  son,  now  just 
of  age,  was  finishing  his  academic  career  at  an  English  Uni¬ 
versity.  But  this  year  the  family  had  returned:  there  had 
been  both  dinners  and  receptions  at  the  palace,  and  the  ball, 
which  was  to  be  a  sort  of  festival  in  honour  of  the  coming  of 
age  of  the  heir,  was  expected  as  the  principal  event  of  the  year. 
It  was  rumoured  that  there  would  be  nearly  thirty  rooms  opened 
besides  the  great  hall,  which  was  set  aside  for  dancing,  and 
that  the  arrangements  were  on  a  scale  worthy  of  a  household 
which  had  endured  in  its  high  position  for  upwards  of  a  thou¬ 
sand  years.  It  was  understood  that  no  distinction  had  been 
made,  in  issuing  the  invitations,  between  parties  in  politics  or  in 
society,  and  that  there  would  be  more  people  seen  there  than 
had  been  collected  under  one  roof  for  many  years. 

The  Frangipani  did  things  magnificently,  and  no  one  was 
disappointed.  The  gardens  and  courts  of  the  palace  were  brill¬ 
iantly  illuminated;  vast  suites  of  apartments  were  thrown  open, 
and  lavishly  decorated  with  rare  flowers;  the  grand  staircase 
was  lined  with  footmen  in  the  liveries  of  the  house,  standing 
motionless  as  the  guests  passed  up;  the  supper  was  a  banquet 
such  as  is  read  of  in  the  chronicles  of  medieval  splendour;  the 
enormous  conservatory  in  the  distant  south  wing  was  softly  lit 


88 


SARACINESCA. 


by  shaded  candles  concealed  among  the  tropical  plants;  and 
the  ceilings  and  walls  of  the  great  hall  itself  had  been  newly 
decorated  by  famous  painters;  while  the  polished  wooden  floor 
presented  an  innovation  upon  the  old-fashioned  canvas-covered 
brick  pavement,  not  hitherto  seen  in  any  Roman  palace.  A 
thousand  candles,  disposed  in  every  variety  of  chandelier  and 
candelabra,  shed  a  soft  rich  light  from  far  above,  and  high  in 
the  gallery  at  one  end  an  orchestra  of  Viennese  musicians 
played  unceasingly. 

As  generally  happens  at  very  large  balls,  the  dancing  began 
late,  but  numbers  of  persons  had  come  early  in  order  to  survey 
the  wonders  of  the  palace  at  their  leisure.  Among  those  who 
arrived  soon  after  ten  o’clock  was  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  who 
was  greeted  loudly  by  all  who  knew  him.  He  looked  pale  and 
tired,  if  his  tough  nature  could  ever  be  said  to  seem  weary; 
but  he  was  in  an  unusually  affable  mood,  and  exchanged  words 
with  every  one  he  met.  Indeed  he  had  been  sad  for  so  many 
days  that  he  hardly  understood  -wThy  he  felt  gay,  unless  it  was 
in  the  anticipation  of  once  more  seeing  the  woman  he  loved. 
He  wandered  through  the  rooms  carelessly  enough,  but  he  was 
in  reality  devoured  by  impatience,  and  his  quick  eyes  sought 
Corona’s  tall  figure  in  every  direction.  But  she  was  not  yet 
there,  and  Giovanni  at  last  came  and  took  his  station  in  one  of 
the  outer  halls,  waiting  patiently  for  her  arrival. 

.While  he  waited,  leaning  against  one  of  the  marble  pillars  of 
the  door,  the  throng  increased  rapidly;  but  he  hardly  noticed 
the  swelling  crowd,  until  suddenly  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
unceasing  talk,  and  the  men  and  women  parted  to  allow  a  car¬ 
dinal  to  pass  out  from  the  inner  rooms.  With  many  gracious 
nods  and  winning  looks,  the  great  man  moved  on,  his  keen 
eyes  embracing  every  one  and  everything  within  the  range  of 
his  vision,  his  courteous  smile  seeming  intended  for  each  sepa¬ 
rate  individual,  and  yet  overlooking  none,  nor  resting  long  on 
any,  his  high  brow  serene  and  unbent,  his  flowing  robes  falling 
back  from  his  courtly  figure,  as  with  his  red  hat  in  his  hand 
he  bowed  his  way  through  the  bowing  crowd.  His  departure, 
which  was  quickly  followed  by  that  of  several  other  cardinals 
and  prelates,  was  the  signal  that  the  dancing  would  soon 
begin;  and  when  he  had  passed  out,  the  throng  of  men  and 
women  pressed  more  quickly  in  through  the  door  on  their  way 
to  the  ball-room. 

But  as  the  great  cardinal’s  eye  rested  on  Giovanni  Saraci¬ 
nesca,  accompanied  by  that  invariable  smile  that  so  many  can 
remember  well  to  this  day,  his  delicate  hand  made  a  gesture  as 
though  beckoning  to  the  young  man  to  follow  him.  Giovanni 
obeyed  the  summons,  and  became  for  the  moment  the  most 
notable  man  in  the  room.  The  two  passed  out  together,  and 


SARACINESCA. 


89 


a  moment  later  were  standing  in  the  outer  hall.  Already  the 
torch-bearers  were  standing  without  upon  the  grand  staircase, 
and  the  lackeys  were  mustering  in  long  files  to  salute  the 
Prime  Minister.  Just  then  the  master  of  the  house  came  run¬ 
ning  breathless  from  within.  He  had  not  seen  that  Cardinal 
Antonelli  was  taking  his  leave,  and  hastened  to  overtake  him, 
lest  any  breach  of  etiquette  on  his  part  should  attract  the  dis¬ 
pleasure  of  the  statesman. 

“  Your  Eminence’s  pardon  !  ”  he  exclaimed,  hurriedly.  “  1 
had  not  seen  that  your  Eminence  was  leaving  us — so  early  too 
— the  Princess  feared - ” 

“  Do  not  speak  of  it,”  answered  the  Cardinal,  in  suave  tones. 
“  I  am  not  so  strong  as  I  used  to  be.  We  old  fellows  must  to 
bed  betimes,  and  leave  you  young  ones  to  enjoy  yourselves. 
No  excuses — good  night — a  beautiful  ball — I  congratulate  you 
on  the  reopening  of  your  house — good  night  again.  I  will 
have  a  word  with  Giovanni  here  before  I  go  down-stairs.” 

He  extended  his  hand  to  Frangipani,  who  lifted  it  respect¬ 
fully  to  his  lips  and  withdrew,  seeing  that  he  was  not  wanted. 
He  and  many  others  speculated  long  upon  the  business  which 
engaged  his  Eminence  in  close  conversation  with  Giovanni 
Saracinesca,  keeping  him  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
in  the  cold  ante-chamber,  where  the  night  wind  blew  in  unhin¬ 
dered  from  the  vast  staircase  of  the  palace.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Giovanni  was  as  much  surprised  as  any  one. 

“  Where  have  you  been,  my  friend  ?”  inquired  the  Cardinal, 
when  they  were  alone. 

“  To  Saracinesca,  your  Eminence.” 

“  And  what  have  you  been  doing  in  Saracinesca  at  this  time 
of  year  ?  I  hope  you  are  attending  to  the  woods  there — you 
have  not  been  cutting  timber  ?  ” 

“  No  one  can  be  more  anxious  than  we  to  see  the  woods  grow 
thick  upon  our  hills,”  replied  Giovanni.  “  Your  Eminence 
need  have  no  fear.” 

“  Not  for  your  estates,”  said  the  great  Cardinal,  his  small 
keen  black  eyes  resting  searchingly  on  Giovanni’s  face.  “  But 
I  confess  I  have  some  fears  for  yourself.” 

“  For  me,  Eminence  ?  ”  repeated  Giovanni,  in  some  astonish¬ 
ment. 

“  For  you.  I  have  heard  with  considerable  anxiety  that 
there  is  a  question  of  marrying  you  to  Madame  Mayer.  Such 
a  match  would  not  meet  with  the  Holy  Father’s  approval,  nor 
— if  I  may  be  permitted  to  mention  my  humble  self  in  the 
same  breath  with  our  august  sovereign — would:  it  be  wise  in 
my  own  estimation.” 

“  Permit  me  to  remark  to  your  Eminence,”  answered  Gio¬ 
vanni,  proudly,  “  that  in  my  house  we  have  never  been  in  the 


90 


SARACINESCA. 


habit  of  asking  advice  upon  such  subjects.  Donna  Tullia  is  a 
good  Catholic.  There  ean  therefore  be  no  valid  objection  to 
my  asking  hsr  hand,  if  my  father  and  I  agree  that  it  is  best.” 

“  You  are  terrible  fellows,  you  Saracinesca,”  returned  the 
Cardinal,  blandly.  “  I  have  read  your  family  history  with 
immense  interest,  and  what  you  say  is  quite  true.  I  cannot 
find  an  instance  on  record  of  your  taking  the  advice  of  any 
one — certainly  not  of  the  Holy  Church.  It  is  with  the  utmost 
circumspection  that  I  venture  to  approach  the  subject  with 
you,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  that 
my  words  are  not  dictated  by  any  officious  or  meddling  spirit; 
I  am  addressing  you  by  the  direct  desire  of  the  Holy  Father 
himself.” 

A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath,  and  if  the  all-powerful 
statesman’s  answer  to  Giovanni  seems  to  have  been  more  soft 
than  might  have  been  expected,  it  must  be  remembered  that 
he  was  speaking  to  the  heir  of  one  of  the  most  powerful  houses 
in  the  Roman  State,  at  a  time  when  the  personal  friendship  of 
such  men  as  the  Saracinesca  was  of  vastly  greater  importance 
than  it  is  now.  At  that  time  some  twenty  noblemen  owned  a 
great  part  of  the  Pontifical  States,  and  the  influence  they  could 
exert  upon  their  tenantry  was  very  great,  for  the  feudal  system 
was  not  extinct,  nor  the  feudal  spirit.  Moreover,  though  Car¬ 
dinal  Antonelli  was  far  from  popular  with  any  party,  Pius  IX. 
was  respected  and  beloved  by  a  vast  majority  of  the  gentlemen 
as  well  as  of  the  people.  Giovanni’s  first  impulse  was  to  resist 
any  interference  whatsoever  in  his  affairs;  but  on  receiving 
the  Cardinal’s  mild  answer  to  his  own  somewhat  arrogant 
assertion  of  independence,  he  bowed  politely  and  professed 
himself  willing  to  listen  to  reason. 

“  But,”  he  said,  “since  his  Holiness  has  mentioned  the  mat¬ 
ter,  I  beg  that  your  Eminence  will  inform  him  that,  though 
the  question  of  my  marriage  seems  to  be  in  everybody’s  mouth, 
it  is  as  yet  merely  a  project  in  which  no  active  steps  have  been 
taken.” 

“  I  am  glad  of  it,  Giovanni,”  replied  the  Cardinal,  familiarly 
taking  his  arm,  and  beginning  to  pace  the  hall;  “  I  am  glad  of 
it.  There  are  reasons  why  the  match  appears  to  be  unworthy 
of  you.  If  you  will  permit  me,  without  any  offence  to  Madame 
Mayer,  I  will  tell  you  what  those  reasons  are.” 

“  I  am  at  your  service,”  said  Giovanni,  gravely,  “  provided 
only  there  is  no  offence  to  Donna  Tullia.” 

“  None  whatever.  The  reasons  are  purely  political.  Ma¬ 
dame  Mayer — or  Donna  Tullia,  since  you  prefer  to  call  her  so 
— is  the  centre  of  a  sort  of  club  of  so-called  Liberals,  of  whom 
the  most  active  and  the  most  foolish  member  is  a  certain  Ugo 
del  Ferice,  a  fellow  who  calls  himself  a  count,  but  whose 


SARACDSTESCA. 


91 


grandfather  was  a  coachman  in  the  Vatican  under  Leo  XII. 
He  will  get  himself  into  trouble  some  day.  He  is  always  in 
attendance  upon  Donna  Tullia,  and  probably  led  her  into  this 
band  of  foolish  young  people  for  objects  of  his  own.  It  is  a 
very  silly  society ;  I  daresay  you  have  heard  some  of  their 
talk.” 

“  Very  little,”  replied  Giovanni;  “  I  do  not  trouble  myself 
about  politics.  I  did  not  even  know  that  there  was  such  a 
club  as  your  Eminence  speaks  of.” 

Cardinal  Antonelli  glanced  sharply  at  his  companion  as  he 
proceeded. 

“  They  affect  solidarity  and  secrecy,  these  young  people,”  he 
said,  with  a  sneer,  “  and  their  solidarity  betrays  their  secrecy, 
because  it  is  unfortunately  true  in  our  dear  Rome  that  where- 
ever  two  or  three  are  gathered  together  they  are  engaged  in 
some  mischief.  But  they  may  gather  in  peace  at  the  studio  of 
Monsieur  Gouache,  or  anywhere  else  they  please,  for  all  1  care. 
Gouache  is  a  clever  fellow;  he  is  to  paint  my  portrait.  Do 
you  know  him  ?  But,  to  return  to  my  sheep  in  wolves’  cloth¬ 
ing — my  amusing  little  conspirators.  They  can  do  no  harm, 
for  they  know  not  even  what  they  say,  and  their  words  are  not 
followed  by  any  kind  of  action  whatsoever.  But  the  principle 
of  the  thing  is  bad,  Giovanni.  Your  brave  old  ancestors  used 
to  fight  us  Churchmen  outright,  and  unless  the  Lord  is  espe¬ 
cially  merciful,  their  souls  are  in  an  evil  case,  for  the  devil 
knoweth  his  own,  and  is  a  particularly  bad  paymaster.  But 
they  fought  outright,  like  gentlemen ;  whereas  these  people — 
foderunt  foveam  ut  caperent  me — they  have  digged  a  ditch, 
but  they  will  certainly  not  catch  me,  nor  any  one  else.  Their 
conciliabules,  as  Rousseau  would  have  called  them,  meet  daily 
and  talk  great  nonsense  and  do  nothing;  which  does  not  prove 
their  principles  to  be  good,  while  it  demonstrates  their  intel¬ 
lect  to  be  contemptible.  No  offence  to  the  Signor  Conte  del 
Ferice,  but  I  think  ignorance  has  marked  his  little  party  for 
its  own,  and  inanity  waits  on  all  his  councils.  If  they  believe 
in  half  the  absurdities  they  utter,  why  do  they  not  pack  up 
their  goods  and  chattels  and  cross  the  frontier  ?  If  they 
meant  anything,  they  would  do  something.” 

"  Evidently,”  replied  Giovanni,  half  amused  at  his  Emi¬ 
nence’s  tirade. 

“  Evidently.  Therefore  they  mean  nothing.  Therefore  our 
good  friend  Donna  Tullia  is  dabbling  in  the  emptiness  of 
political  dilettanteism  for  the  satisfaction  of  a  hollow  vanity; 
no  offence  to  her — it  is  the  manner  of  her  kind.” 

Giovanni  was  silent. 

“  Believe  me,  prince,”  said  the  Cardinal,  suddenly  changing 
his  tone  and  speaking  very  seriously,  “  there  is  something  bet- 


92 


SARACINESCA. 


ter  for  strong  men  like  you  and  me  to  do,  in  these  times,  than 
to  dabble  in  conspiracy  and  to  toss  off  glasses  of  champagne  to 
Italian  unity  and  Victor  Emmanuel.  The  condition  of  our 
lives  is  battle,  and  battle  against  terrible  odds.  Neither  you 
nor  I  should  be  content  to  waste  our  strength  in  fighting 
shadows,  in  waging  war  on  petty  troubles  of  our  own  raising, 
knowing  all  the  while  that  the  powers  of  evil  are  marshalled  in 
a  deadly  array  against  the  powers  of  good.  Sed  non  prcevale- 
bunt ! " 

The  Cardinal's  thin  face  assumed  a  strange  look  of  deter¬ 
mination,  and  his  delicate  fingers  grasped  Giovanni's  arm  with 
a  force  that  startled  him. 

“You  speak  bravely,"  answered  the  young  man.  “You  are 
more  sanguine  than  we  men  of  the  world.  You  believe  that 
disaster  impossible  which  to  me  seems  growing  daily  more 
imminent." 

Cardinal  Antonelli  turned  his  gleaming  black  eyes  full  on 
his  companion. 

“  0  generatio  incredulci !  If  you  have  not  faith,  you  have 
not  courage,  and  if  you  have  not  courage  you  will  waste  your 
life  in  the  pursuit  of  emptiness!  It  is  for  men  like  yon,  for 
men  of  ancient  race,  of  broad  acres,  of  iron  body  and  healthy 
mind,  to  put  your  hand  to  the  good  work  and  help  us  who  have 
struggled  for  many  years  and  whose  strength  is  already  failing. 
Every  action  of  your  life,  every  thought  of  your  waking  hours, 
should  be  for  the  good  end,  lest  we  all  perish  together  and 
expiate  our  lukewarm  indifference.  Timidi  nunquam  statue- 
runt  tr'opceum — if  we  would  divide  the  spoil  we  must  gird  on 
the  sword  and  use  it  boldly;  we  must  not  allow  the  possibility 
of  failure;  we  must  be  vigilant;  we  must  be  united  as  one  man. 
You  tell  me  that  you  men  of  the  world  already  regard  a  dis¬ 
aster  as  imminent — to  expect  defeat  is  nine-tenths  of  a  defeat 
itself.  Ah,  if  we  could  count  upon  such  men  as  you  to  the 
very  death,  our  case  would  be  far  from  desperate." 

“  For  the  matter  of  that,  your  Eminence  can  count  upon  us 
well  enough,"  replied  Giovanni,  quietly. 

“  Upon  you,  Giovanni — yes,  for  you  are  a  brave  gentleman. 
But  upon  your  friends,  even  upon  your  class — no.  Can  I  count 
upon  the  Valdarno,  even  ?  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  they 
are  in  sympathy  with  the  Liberals — that  they  have  neither  the 
courage  to  support  us  nor  the  audacity  to  renounce  us;  and, 
what  is  worse,  they  represent  a  large  class,  of  whom,  I  regret 
to  say,  Donna  Tullia  Mayer  is  one  of  the  most  prominent  mem¬ 
bers.  With  her  wealth,  her  youth,  her  effervescent  spirits,  and 
her  early  widowhood,  she  leads  men  after  her;  they  talk,  they 
chatter,  they  set  up  an  opinion  and  gloat  over  it,  while  they 
lack  the  spirit  to  support  it.  They  are  all  alike — non  tantum 


SARACINESCA. 


93 


ovum  ovo  simile — one  egg  is  not  more  like  another  than  they 
are.  Non  tali  auxilio — we  want  no  such  help.  We  ask  for 
bread,  not  for  stones;  we  want  men,  not  empty-headed  dandies. 
We  have  both  at  present;  but  if  the  Emperor  fails  us,  we  shall 
have  too  many  dandies  and  too  few  men — too  few  men  like 
you,  Don  Giovanni.  Instead  of  armed  battalions  we  shall  have 
polite  societies  for  mutual  assurance  against  political  risks, — 
instead  of  the  support  of  the  greatest  military  power  in  Europe, 
we  shall  have  to  rely  on  a  parcel  of  young  gentlemen  whose 
opinions  are  guided  by  Donna  Tullia  Mayer.” 

Giovanni  laughed  and  glanced  at  his  Eminence,  who  chose 
to  refer  all  the  imminent  disasters  of  the  State  to  the  lady 
whom  he  did  not  wish  to  see  married  to  his  companion. 

“  Is  her  influence  really  so  great  ?  ”  asked  Saracinesca,  in¬ 
credulously. 

“  She  is  agreeable,  she  is  pretty,  she  is  rich — her  influence  is 
a  type  of  the  whole  influence  which  is  abroad  in  Rome — a  re¬ 
flection  of  the  life  of  Paris.  There,  at  least,  the  women  play  a 
real  part — very  often  a  great  one:  here,  when  they  have  got 
command  of  a  drawing-room  full  of  fops,  they  do  not  know 
where  to  lead  them;  they  change  their  minds  twenty  times 
a-day;  they  have  an  access  of  religious  enthusiasm  in  Advent, 
followed  by  an  attack  of  Liberal  fever  in  Carnival,  and  their 
season  is  brought  to  a  fitting  termination  by  the  prostration 
which  overtakes  them  in  Lent.  By  that  time  all  their  princi¬ 
ples  are  upset,  and  they  go  to  Paris  for  the  month  of  May — 
pour  se  retremper  dans  les  idees  idealistes,  as  they  express  it. 
Do  you  think  one  could  construct  a  party  out  of  such  elements, 
especially  when  you  reflect  that  this  mass  of  uncertainty  is  cer¬ 
tain  always  to  yield  to  the  ultimate  consideration  of  self-inte¬ 
rest  ?  Half  of  them  keep  an  Italian  flag  with  the  Papal  one, 
ready  to  thrust  either  of  them  out  of  the  window  as  occasion 
may  require.  Good  night,  Giovanni.  I  have  talked  enough, 
and  all  Rome  will  set  upon  you  to  find  out  what  secrets  of  State 
I  have  been  confiding.  You  had  better  prepare  an  answer,  for 
you  can  hardly  inform  Donna  Tullia  and  her  set  that  I  have 
been  calling  them  a  parcel  of — weak  and  ill-advised  people. 
They  might  take  offence — they  might  even  call  me  by  bad 
names, — fancy  how  very  terribly  that  would  afflict  me!  Good 
night,  Giovanni — my  greetings  to  your  father.” 

The  Cardinal  nodded,  but  did  not  offer  his  hand.  He  knew 
that  Giovanni  hated  to  kiss  his  ring,  and  he  had  too  much  tact 
to  press  the  ceremonial  etiquette  upon  any  one  whom  he  de¬ 
sired  to  influence.  But  he  nodded  graciously,  and  receiving 
his  cloak  from  the  gentleman  who  accompanied  him  and  who 
had  waited  at  a  respectful  distance,  the  statesman  passed  out 
of  the  great  doorway,  where  the  double  line  of  torch-bearers 


94 


SARACINESCA. 


stood  ready  to  accompany  him  down  the  grand  staircase  to  his 
carriage,  in  accordance  with  the  custom  of  those  days. 


CHAPTER  X. 

When  he  was  alone,  Giovanni  retraced  his  steps,  and  again 
took  up  his  position  near  the  entrance  to  the  reception-rooms. 
He  had  matter  for  reflection  in  the  interview  which  had  just 
ended;  and,  having  nothing  better  to  do  while  he  waited  for 
Corona,  he  thought  about  what  had  happened.  He  was  not 
altogether  pleased  at  the  interest  his  marriage  excited  in  high 
quarters;  lie  hated  interference,  and  he  regarded  Cardinal 
Antonelli’s  advice  in  such  a  matter  as  an  interference  of  the 
most  unwarrantable  kind.  Neither  he  himself  nor  his  father 
were  men  who  sought  counsel  from  without,  for  independence 
in  action  was  with  them  a  family  tradition,  as  independence  of 
thought  was  in  their  race  a  hereditary  quality.  To  think  that 
if  he,  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  chose  to  marry  any  woman  what¬ 
soever,  any  one,  no  matter  how  exalted  in  station,  should  dare 
to  express  approval  or  disapproval  was  a  shock  to  every  inborn 
and  cultivated  prejudice  in  his  nature.  He  had  nearly  quar¬ 
relled  with  his  own  father  for  seeking  to  influence  his  matri¬ 
monial  projects;  it  was  not  likely  that  he  would  suffer  Cardinal 
Antonelli  to  interfere  with  them.  If  Giovanni  had  really  made 
up  his  mind — had  firmly  determined  to  ask  the  hand  of  Donna 
Tullia — it  is  more  than  probable  that  the  statesman’s  advice 
would  not  only  have  failed  signally  in  preventing  the  match, 
but  by  the  very  opposition  it  would  have  aroused  in  Giovanni’s 
heart  it  would  have  had  the  effect  of  throwing  him  into  the 
arms  of  a  party  which  already  desired  his  adhesion,  and  which, 
under  his  guidance,  might  have  become  as  formidable  as  it  was 
previously  insignificant.  But  the  great  Cardinal  was  probably 
well  informed,  and  his  words  had  not  fallen  upon  a  barren  soil. 
Giovanni  had  vacillated  sadly  in  trying  to  come  to  a  decision. 
His  first  Quixotic  impulse  to  marry  Madame  Mayer,  in  order 
to  show  the  world  that  he  cared  nothing  for  Corono  d’Astrar- 
dente,  had  proved  itself  absurd,  even  to  his  impetuous  intelli¬ 
gence.  The  growing  antipathy  he  felt  for  Donna  Tullia  had 
made  his  marriage  with  her  appear  in  the  light  of  a  disagree¬ 
able  duty,  and  his  rashness  in  confessing  his  love  for  Corona 
had  so  disturbed  his  previous  conceptions  that  marriage  no 
longer  seemed  a  duty  at  all.  What  had  been  but  a  few  days 
before  almost  a  fixed  resolution,  had  dwindled  till  it  seemed  an 
impracticable  and  even  a  useless  scheme.  When  he  had  arrived 
at  the  Palazzo  Frangipani  that  evening,  he  had  very  nearly  for¬ 
gotten  Donna  Tullia,  and  had  quite  determined  that  whatever 


SARACIHESCA. 


95 


his  father  might  say  he  would  not  give  the  promised  answer 
before  Easter.  By  the  time  the  Cardinal  had  left  him,  he  had 
decided  that  no  power  on  earth  should  induce  him  to  marry 
Madame  Mayer.  He  did  not  take  the  trouble  of  saying  to  him¬ 
self  that  he  would  marry  no  one  else. 

The  CardinaTs  words  had  struck  deep,  in  a  deep  nature. 
Giovanni  had  given  Del  Ferice  a  very  fair  exposition  of  the 
views  he  believed  himself  to  hold,  on  the  day  when  they  had 
walked  together  after  Donna  Tullia's  picnic.  He  believed 
himself  a  practical  man,  loyal  to  the  temporal  power  by 
principle  rather  than  by  any  sort  of  enthusiastic  devotion; 
not  desirous  of  any  great  change,  because  any  change  that 
might  reasonably  be  expected  would  be  bad  for  his  own  vested 
interests;  not  prejudiced  for  any  policy  save  that  of  peace — 
preferring,  indeed,  with  Cicero,  the  most  unjust  peace  to  the 
most  just  war;  tenacious  of  old  customs,  and  not  particularly 
inquisitive  concerning  ideas  of  progress, — on  the  whole,  Gio¬ 
vanni  thought  himself  what  his  father  had  beer  in  his  youth, 
and  more  or  less  what  he  hoped  his  sons,  if  he  ever  had  any, 
would  be  after  him. 

But  there  was  more  in  him  than  all  this,  and  at  the  first 
distant  sound  of  battle  he  felt  the  spirit  stir  within  him,  for 
his  real  nature  was  brave  and  loyal,  unselfish  and  devoted, 
instinctively  sympathizing  with  the  weak  and  hating  the 
lukewarm.  He  had  told  Del  Ferice  that  he  believed  he  would 
fight  as  a  matter  of  principle :  as  he  leaned  against  the  marble 
pillar  of  the  door  in  the  Palazzo  Frangipani,  he  wished  the 
fight  had  already  begun. 

Waiting  there,  and  staring  into  the  moving  crowd,  he  was 
aware  of  a  young  man  with  pale  and  delicate  features  and 
black  hair,  who  stood  quietly  by  his  side,  and  seemed  like 
himself  an  idle  though  not  uninterested  spectator  of  the  scene. 
Giovanni  glanced  once  at  the  young  fellow,  and  thought  he 
recognised  him,  and  glancing  again,  he  met  his  earnest  look, 
and  saw  that  it  was  Anastase  Gouache,  the  painter.  Giovanni 
knew  him  slightly,  for  Gouache  was  regarded  as  a  rising 
celebrity,  and,  thanks  to  Donna  Tullia,  was  invited  to  most  of 
the  great  receptions  and  balls  of  that  season,  though  he  was 
not  yet  anywhere  on  a  footing  of  intimacy.  Gouache  was 
proud,  and  would  perhaps  have  stood  aloof  altogether  rather 
than  be  treated  as  one  of  the  herd  who  are  asked  “  with  every¬ 
body,”  as  the  phrase  goes ;  but  he  was  of  an  observing  turn  of 
mind,  and  it  amused  him  immensely  to  stand  unnoticed, 
following  the  movements  of  society's  planets,  comets,  and 
satellites,  and  studying  the  many  types  of  the  cosmopolitan 
Roman  world. 

“  Good  evening,  Monsieur  Gouache,”  said  Giovanni. 


96 


SARACINESCA. 


“  Good  evening,  prince,”  replied  the  artist,  with  a  somewhat 
formal  how — after  which  both  men  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
continued  to  watch  the  crowd. 

“  And  what  do  you  think  of  our  Roman  world  ?  ”  asked  Gio¬ 
vanni,  presently. 

“  I  cannot  compare  it  to  any  other  world,”  answered 
Gouache,  simply.  “  I  never  went  into  society  till  I  came 
to  Rome.  I  think  it  is  at  once  brilliant  and  sedate — it  has 
a  magnificent  air  of  historical  antiquity,  and  it  is  a  little 
paradoxical.” 

“  Where  is  the  paradox  ?  ”  inquired  Giovanni. 

‘  ‘  *  Es-tu-libre  ?  Les  lois  sont-elles  respect ees  ? 

Crains-tu  de  voir  ton  champ  pille  par  le  voisin  ? 

Le  maitre  a-t-il  son  toit,  et  l’ouvrier  son  pain  ? ,  ” 

A  smile  flickered  over  the  young  artist's  face  as  he  quoted 
Musset's  lines  in  answer  to  Giovanni's  question.  Giovanni 
himself  laughed,  and  looked  at  Anastase  with  somewhat  in¬ 
creased  interest. 

“  Do  you  mean  that  we  are  revelling  under  the  sword  of 
Damocles — dancing  on  the  eve  of  our  execution  ?  ” 

“  Not  precisely.  A  delicate  flavour  of  uncertainty  about  to¬ 
morrow  gives  zest  to  the  appetite  of  to-day.  It  is  impossible 
that  such  a  large  society  should  be  wholly  unconscious  of  its 
own  imminent  danger  —  and  yet  these  men  and  women  go 
about  to-night  as  if  they  were  Romans  of  old,  rulers  of  the 
world,  only  less  sure  of  themselves  than  of  the  stability  of  their 
empire.” 

“  Why  not  ?  ”  asked  Giovanni,  glancing  curiously  at  the  pale 
young  man  beside  him.  “  In  answer  to  your  quotation,  I  can 
say  that  I  am  as  free  as  I  care  to  be;  that  the  laws  are  suf- 
ficienty  respected;  that  no  one  has  hitherto  thought  it  worth 
while  to  plunder  my  acres;  that  I  have  a  modest  roof  of  my 
own;  and  that,  as  far  as  I  am  -aware,  there  are  no  workmen 
starving  in  the  streets  at  present.  You  are  answered,  it  seems 
to  me,  Monsieur  Gouache.” 

“  Is  that  really  your  belief  ?  ”  asked  the  artist,  quietly. 

“  Yes.  As  for  my  freedom,  I  am  as  free  as  air;  no  one 
thinks  of  hindering  my  movements.  As  for  the  laws,  they  are 
made  for  good  citizens,  and  good  citizens  will  respect  them;  if 
bad  citizens  do  not,  that  is  their  loss.  My  acres  are  safe,  pos¬ 
sibly  because  they  are  not  worth  taking,  though  they  yield  me 
a  modest  competence  sufficient  for  my  needs  and  for  the  needs 
of  those  who  cultivate  them  for  me.” 

“  And  yet  there  is  a  great  deal  of  talk  in  Rome  about  misery 
and  injustice  and  oppression - ” 

“  There  will  be  a  great  deal  more  talk  about  those  evils,  with 
much  better  cause,  if  people  who  think  like  you  succeed  in 


SARACINESCA. 


97 


bringing  about  a  revolution,  Monsieur  Gouache,”  answered 
Giovanni,  coldly. 

“  If  many  people  think  like  you,  prince,  a  revolution  is  not 
to  be  thought  of.  As  for  me  I  am  a  foreigner  and  I  see  what 
I  can,  and  listen  to  what  I  hear.” 

“  A  revolution  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  It  was  tried  here  and 
failed.  If  we  are  overcome  by  a  great  power  from  without,  we 
shall  have  no  choice  but  to  yield,  if  any  of  us  survive — for  we 
would  fight.  But  we  have  nothing  to  fear  from  within.” 

“  Perhaps  not,”  returned  Gouache,  thoughtfully.  “  I  hear 
such  opposite  opinions  that  I  hardly  know  what  to  think.” 

“  I  hear  that  you  are  to  paint  Cardinal  Antonelli’s  por¬ 
trait,”  said  Giovanni.  “  Perhaps  his  Eminence  will  help  you 
to  decide.” 

“  Yes;  they  say  he  is  the  cleverest  man  in  Europe.” 

“  In  that  opinion  they — whoever  they  may  be — are  mis¬ 
taken,”  replied  Giovanni.  “But  he  is  a  man  of  immense 
intellect,  nevertheless.” 

“  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  will  paint  his  portrait  after  all,” 
said  Gouache. 

“  You  do  not  wish  to  be  persuaded  ?  ” 

“  No.  My  own  ideas  please  me  very  well  for  the  present.  I 
would  not  exchange  them  for  those  of  any  one  else.” 

“  May  I  ask  what  those  ideas  are  ?”  inquired  Giovanni,  with 
a  show  of  interest. 

“  I  am  a  republican,”  answered  Gouache,  quietly.  “  I  am 
also  a  good  Catholic.” 

“  Then  you  are  yourself  much  more  paradoxical  than  the 
whole  of  our  Roman  society  put  together,”  answered  Giovanni, 
with  a  dry  laugh. 

“  Perhaps.  There  comes  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
world.” 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o’clock  when  Corona  arrived,  old  Astrar- 
dente  sauntering  jauntily  by  her  side,  his  face  arranged  with 
more  than  usual  care,  and  his  glossy  wig  curled  cunningly  to 
represent  nature.  He  was  said  to  possess  a  number  of  wigs  of 
different  lengths,  which  he  wore  in  rotation,  thus  sustaining 
the  impression  that  his  hair  was  cut  from  time  to  time.  In 
his  eye  a  single  eye-glass  was  adjusted,  and  as  he  walked  be 
swung  his  hat  delicately  in  his  tightly  gloved  fingers.  He 
wore  the  plainest  of  collars  and  the  simplest  of  gold  studs;  no 
chain  dangled  showily  from  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  his  small 
feet  were  encased  in  little  patent-leather  shoes.  But  for  his 
painted  face,  he  might  have  passed  for  the  very  incarnation  of 
fashionable  simplicity.  But  his  face  betrayed  him. 

As  for  Corona,  she  was  dazzlingly  beautiful.  Not  that  any 
colour  or  material  she  wore  could  greatly  enhance  her  beauty, 


98 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


for  all  who  saw  her  on  that  memorable  night  remembered  the 
wonderful  light  in  her  face,  and  the  strange  look  in  her  splen¬ 
did  eyes;  but  the  thick  soft  fall  of  the  white  velvet  made  as  it 
were  a  pedestal  for  her  loveliness,  and  the  Astrardente  jewels 
that  clasped  her  waist  and  throat  and  crowned  her  black  hair, 
collected  the  radiance  of  the  many  candles,  and  made  the  light 
cling  to  her  and  follow  her  as  she  walked.  Giovanni  saw  her 
enter,  and  his  whole  adoration  came  upon  him  as  a  madness 
upon  a  sick  man  in  a  fever,  so  that  he  would  have  sprung  for¬ 
ward  to  meet  her,  and  fallen  at  her  feet  and  worshipped  her, 
had  he  not  suddenly  felt  that  he  was  watched  by  more  than 
one  of  the  many  who  paused  to  see  her  go  by.  He  moved  from 
his  place  and  waited  near  the  door  where  she  would  have  to 
pass,  and  for  a  moment  his  heart  stood  still. 

He  hardly  knew  how  it  was.  He  found  himself  speaking  to 
her.  He  asked  her  for  a  dance,  he  asked  boldly  for  the  cotillon 
— he  never  knew  how  he  had  dared;  she  assented,  let  her  eyes 
rest  upon  him  for  one  moment  with  an  indescribable  expression, 
then  grew  very  calm  and  cold,  and  passed  on. 

It  was  all  over  in  an  instant.  Giovanni  moved  back  to  his 
place  as  she  went  by,  and  stood  still  like  a  man  stunned.  It 
was  well  that  there  were  yet  nearly  two  hours  before  the  pre¬ 
liminary  dancing  would  be  over;  he  heeded  some  time  to  col¬ 
lect  himself.  The  air'  seemed  full  of  strange  voices,  and  he 
watched  the  moving  faces  as  in  a  dream,  unable  to  concentrate 
his  attention  upon  anything  he  saw. 

“  He  looks  as  though  he  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis,”  said  a 
woman’s  voice  near  him.  It  did  not  strike  him,  in  his  strange 
bewilderment,  that  it  was  Donna  Tullia  who  had  spoken,  still 
less  that  she  was  speaking  of  him  almost  to  him. 

“  Something  very  like  it,  I  should  say,”  answered  Del  Fence’s 
oily  voice.  “  He  has  probably  been  ill  since  you  saw  him. 
Saracinesca  is  an  unhealthy  place.” 

Giovanni  turned  sharply  round. 

“  Yes;  we  were  speaking  of  you,  Don  Giovanni,”  said  Donna 
Tullia,  with  some  scorn.  “  Does  it  strike  you  that  you  were 
exceedingly  rude  in  not  letting  me  know  that  you  were  going 
out  of  town  when  you  had  promised  to  dance  with  me  at  the 
Valdarno  ball?”  She  curled  her  small  lip  and  showed  her 
sharp  white  teeth.  Giovanni  was  a  man  of  the  world,  however, 
and  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

“  I  apologise  most  humbly,”  he  said.  “  It  was  indeed  very 
rude;  but  in  the  urgency  of  the  case,  I  forgot  all  other  engage¬ 
ments.  I  really  beg  your  pardon.  Will  you  honour  me  with  a 
dance  this  evening  ?  ” 

“  I  have  every  dance  engaged,”  answered  Madame  Mayer, 
coldly  staring  at  him. 


SARACINESCA. 


99 


“  I  am  very  sorry,”  said  Giovanni,  inwardly  thanking  heaven 
for  his  good  fortune,  and  wishing  she  would  go  away. 

“  Wait  a  moment,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  judging  that  she  had 
produced  the  desired  effect  upon  him.  “  Let  me  look.  I  be¬ 
lieve  I  have  one  waltz  left.  Let  me  see.  Yes,  the  one  before 
the  last — you  can  have  it  if  you  like.” 

“  Thank  you,”  murmured  Giovanni,  greatly  annoyed.  “  I 
will  remember.” 

Madame  Mayer  laid  her  hand  upon  Del  Ferice’s  arm,  and 
moved  away.  She  was  a  vain  woman,  and  being  in  love  with 
Saracinesca  after  her  own  fashion,  could  not  understand  that 
he  should  be  wholly  indifferent  to  her.  She  thought  that  in 
telling  him  she  had  no  dances  she  had  given  him  a  little  whole¬ 
some  punishment,  and  that  in  giving  one  after  all  she  had  con¬ 
ferred  a  favour  upon  him.  She  also  believed  that  she  had 
annoyed  Del  Ferice,  which  always  amused  her.  But  Del  Fe- 
rice  was  more  than  a  match  for  her,  with  his  quiet  ways  and 
smooth  tongue. 

They  went  into  the  ball-room  together  and  danced  a  few 
minutes.  When  the  music  ceased,  Ugo  excused  himself  on  the 
plea  that  he  was  engaged  for  the  quadrille  that  followed.  He 
at  once  set  out  in  search  of  the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente,  and 
did  not  lose  sight  of  her  again.  She  did  not  dance  before  the 
cotillon,  she  said;  and  she  sat  down  in  a  high  chair  in  the  pic¬ 
ture-gallery,  while  three  or  four  men,  among  whom  was  Yal- 
darno,  sat  and  stood  near  her,  doing  their  best  to  amuse  her. 
Others  came,  and  some  went  away,  but  Corona  did  not  move, 
and  sat  amongst  her  little  court,  glad  to  have  the  time  pass  in 
any  way  until  the  cotillon.  When  Del  Ferice  had  ascertained 
her  position,  he  went  about  his  business,  which  was  manifold — 
dancing  frequently,  and  making  a  point  of  speaking  to  every 
one  in  the  room.  At  the  end  of  an  hour,  he  joined  the  group 
of  men  around  the  Duchessa  and  took  part  in  the  conversation. 

It  was  an  easy  matter  to  make  the  talk  turn  upon  Giovanni 
Saracinesca.  Every  one  was  more  or  less  curious  about  the 
journey  he  had  made,  and  especially  about  the  cause  of  his  ab¬ 
sence.  Each  of  the  men  had  something  to  say,  and  each,  know¬ 
ing  the  popular  report  that  Giovanni  was  in  love  with  Corona, 
said  his  say  with  as  much  wit  as  he  could  command.  Corona 
herself  was  interested,  for  she  alone  understood  his  sudden  ab¬ 
sence,  and  was  anxious  to  hear  the  common  opinion  concerning 
it. 

The  theories  advanced  were  various.  Some  said  he  had  been 
quarrelling  with  the  local  authorities  of  Saracinesca,  who  inter¬ 
fered  with  his  developments  and  improvements  upon  the  estate, 
and  they  gave  laughable  portraits  of  the  village  sages  with 
whom  he  had  been  engaged.  Others  said  he  had  only  stopped 


100 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


there  a  day,  and  had  been  in  Naples.  One  said  he  had  been 
boar-hunting;  another,  that  the  Saracinesca  woods  had  been 
infested  by  a  band  of  robbers,  who  were  terrorising  the  country. 

“  And  what  do  you  say,  Del  Ferice  ?  ”  asked  Corona,  seeing  a 
cunning  smile  upon  the  man’s  pale  fat  face. 

“  It  is  very  simple,”  said  Ugo;  "it  is  a  very  simple  matter 
indeed.  If  the  Duchessa  will  permit  me,  I  will  call  him,  and 
we  will  ask  him  directly  what  he  has  been  doing.  There  he 
stands  with  old  Cantalorgano  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
Public  curiosity  demands  to  be  satisfied.  May  I  call  him, 
Duchessa  ?” 

“By  no  means,”  said  Corona,  quickly.  But  before  she  had 
spoken,  Valdarno,  who  was  always  sanguine  and  impulsive,  had 
rapidly  crossed  the  gallery  and  was  already  speaking  to  Gio¬ 
vanni.  The  latter  bowed  his  head  as  though  obeying  an  order, 
and  came  quietly  back  with  the  young  man  who  had  called 
him.  The  crowd  of  men  parted  before  him  as  he  advanced  to 
the  Duchessa’s  chair,  and  stood  waiting  in  some  surprise. 

“What  are  your  commands,  Duchessa?”  he  asked,  in  some¬ 
what  formal  tones. 

“Valdarno  is  too  quick,”  answered  Corona,  who  was  greatly 
annoyed.  “  Some  one  suggested  calling  you  to  settle  a  dispute, 
and  he  went  before  I  could  stop  him.  I  fear  it  is  very  imperti¬ 
nent  of  us.” 

“  I  am  entirely  at  your  service,”  said  Giovanni,  who  was  de¬ 
lighted  at  having  been  called,  and  had  found  time  to  recover 
from  his  first  excitement  on  seeing  her.  “  What  is  the  ques¬ 
tion  ?  ” 

“  We  were  all  talking  about  you,”  said  Valdarno. 

“We  were  wondering  where  you  had  been,”  said  another. 

“  They  said  you  had  gone  boar-hunting.” 

“  Or  to  Naples.” 

“  Or  even  to  Paris.”  Three  or  four  spoke  in  one  breath. 

“  I  am  exceedingly  flattered  at  the  interest  you  all  show  in 
me,”  said  Giovanni,  quietly.  “  There  is  very  little  to  tell.  I 
have  been  in  Saracinesca  upon  a  matter  of  business,  spending 
my  days  in  the  woods  with  my  steward,  and  my  nights  in  keep¬ 
ing  away  the  cold  and  the  ghosts.  I  would  have  invited  you 
all  to  join  the  festivity,  had  I  known  how  much  you  were 
interested.  The  beef  up  there  is  monstrously  tough,  and  the 
rats  are  abominably  noisy,  but  the  mountain  air  is  said  to  be 
very  healthy.” 

Most  of  the  men  present  felt  that  they  had  not  only  behaved 
foolishly,  but  had  spoiled  the  little  circle  around  the  Duchessa 
by  introducing  a  man  who  had  the  power  to  interest  her, 
whereas  they  co'uld  only  afford  her  a  little  amusement.  Val¬ 
darno  was  still  standing,  and  his  chair  beside  Corona  was 


SARACINESCA. 


101 


vacant.  Giovanni  calmly  installed  himself  upon  it,  and  began 
to  talk  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

“  You  are  not  dancing,  Duchessa,”  he  remarked.  “  I  suppose 
you  have  been  in  the  ball-room  ?” 

“  Yes — but  I  am  rather  tired  this  evening.  I  will  wait.” 

“  You  were  here  at  the  last  great  ball,  before  the  old  prince 
died,  were  you  not  ?  ”  asked  Giovanni,  remembering  that  he 
had  first  seen  her  on  that  occasion. 

“Yes,”  she  answered;  “and  I  remember  that  we  danced 
together;  and  the  accident  to  the  window,  and  the  story  of  the 
ghost.” 

So  they  fell  into  conversation,  and  though  one  or  two  of  the 
men  ventured  an  ineffectual  remark,  the  little  circle  dropped 
away,  and  Giovanni  was  left  alone  by  the  side  of  the  Duchessa. 
The  distant  opening  strains  of  a  waltz  came  floating  down  the 
gallery,  but  neither  of  the  two  heard,  nor  cared. 

“  It  is  strange,”  Giovanni  said.  “  They  say  it  has  always 
happened,  since  the  memory  of  man.  No  one  has  ever  seen 
anything,  but  whenever  there  is  a  great  ball,  there  is  a  crash  of 
broken  glass  some  time  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  Nobody 
could  ever  explain  why  that  window  fell  in,  five  years  ago — five 
years  ago  this  month, — this  very  day,  I  believe,”  he  continued 
suddenly,  in  the  act  of  recollection.  “  Yes — the  nineteenth  of 
January,  I  remember  very  well — it  was  my  mother's  birthday.” 

“  It  is  not  so  extraordinary,”  said  Corona,  “  for  it  chances  to 
be  the  name-day  of  the  present  prince.  That  was  probably 
the  reason  why  it  was  chosen  this  year.”  She  spoke  a  little 
nervously,  as  though  still  ill  at  ease. 

“  But  it  is  very  strange,”  said  Giovanni,  in  a  low  voice.  “  It 
is  strange  that  we  should  have  met  here  the  first  time,  and  that 
we  should  not  have  met  here  since,  until — to-day.” 

He  looked  towards  her  as  he  spoke,  and  their  eyes  met  and 
lingered  in  each  other's  gaze.  Suddenly  the  blood  mounted  to 
Corona's  cheeks,  her  eyelids  drooped,  she  leaned  back  in  her 
seat  and  was  silent. 

Far  off,  at  the  entrance  to  the  ball-room,  Del  Ferice  found 
Donna  Tullia  alone.  She  was  very  angry.  The  dance  for 
which  she  was  engaged  to  Giovanni  Saracinesca  had  begun,  and 
was  already  half  over,  and  still  he  did  not  come.  Her  pink 
face  was  unusually  flushed,  and  there  was  a  disagreeable  look  in 
her  blue  eyes. 

“Ah  ! — I  see  Don  Giovanni  has  again  forgotten  his  engage¬ 
ment,”  said  Ugo,  in  smooth  tones.  He  well  knew  that  he  him¬ 
self  had  brought  about  the  omission,  but  none  could  have 
guessed  it  from  his  manner.  “May  I  have  the  honour  of  a 
turn  before  your  cavalier  arrives  ?”  he  asked. 

“  No,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  angrily.  “  Give  me  your  arm. 


102 


SARACINESCA. 


We  will  go  and  find  him.”  She  almost  hissed  the  words 
through  her  closed  teeth. 

She  hardly  knew  that  Del  Ferice  was  leading  her  as  they 
moved  towards  the  picture-gallery,  passing  through  the  crowded 
rooms  that  lay  between.  She  never  spoke;  but  her  movement 
wras  impetuous,  and  she  resented  being  delayed  by  the  hosts  of 
men  and  women  who  filled  the  way.  As  they  entered  the  long 
apartment,  where  the  portraits  of  the  Frangipani  lined  the 
walls  from  end  to  end,  Del  Ferice  uttered  a  well-feigned  ex¬ 
clamation. 

“  Oh,  there  he  is  !  ”  he  cried.  “  Do  you  see  him  ? — his  hack 
is  turned — he  is  alone  with  the  Astrardente.” 

“  Come,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  shortly.  Del  Ferice  would  have 
preferred  to  have  let  her  go  alone,  and  to  have  witnessed  from 
a  distance  the  scene  he  had  brought  about.  But  he  could  not 
refuse  to  accompany  Madame  Mayer. 

Neither  Corona,  who  was  facing  the  pair,  but  was  talking 
with  Giovanni,  nor  Giovanni  himself,  who  was  turned  away 
from  them,  noticed  their  approach  until  they  came  and  stood 
still  beside  them.  Saracinesca  looked  up  and  started.  The 
Duchessa  d’Astrardente  raised  her  black  eyebrows  in  surprise. 

“  Our  dance  !  ”  exclaimed  Giovanni,  in  considerable  agitation. 
“  It  is  the  one  after. this - ” 

“  On  the  contrary,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  in  tones  trembling 
with  rage,  “  it  is  already  over.  It  is  the  most  unparalleled 
insolence  !  ” 

Giovanni  was  profoundly  disgusted  at  himself  and  Donna 
Tullia.  He  cared  not  so  much  for  the  humiliation  itself,  which 
was  bad  enough,  as  for  the  annoyance  the  scene  caused  Corona, 
who  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  angry  astonishment,  but 
of  course  could  have  nothing  to  say. 

“  I  can  only  assure  you  that  I  thought - ” 

“  You  need  not  assure  me  !  ”  cried  Donna  Tullia,  losing  all 
self-control.  “  There  is  no  excuse,  nor  pardon — it  is  the  second 
time.  Do  not  insult  me  further,  by  inventing  untruths  for 
your  apology.” 

“  Nevertheless - ”  began  Giovanni,  who  was  sincerely  sorry 

for  his  great  rudeness,  and  would  gladly  have  attempted  to  ex¬ 
plain  his  conduct,  seeing  that  Donna  Tullia  was  so  justly  angry. 

“  There  is  no  nevertheless  !  ”  she  interrupted.  “  You  may 
stay  where  you  are,”  she  added,  with  a  scornful  glance  at  the 
Duchessa  d’ Astrardente.  Then  she  laid  her  hand  upon  Del 
Ferice’s  arm,  and  swept  angrily  past,  so  that  the  train  of  her 
red  silk  gown  brushed  sharply  against  Corona’s  soft  white 
velvet. 

Giovanni  remained  standing  a  moment,  with  a  puzzled  ex¬ 
pression  upon  his  face. 


SARACINESCA. 


103 


“How  could  you  do  anything  so  rude?”  asked  Corona,  very 
gravely.  “  She  will  never  forgive  you,  and  she  will  be  quite 
right.” 

“  I  do  not  know  how  I  forgot,”  he  answered,  seating  himself 
again.  “  It  is  dreadful — unpardonable — but  perhaps  the  con¬ 
sequences  will  be  good.” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Corona  was  ill  at  ease.  In  the  first  few  moments  of  being 
alone  with  Giovanni  the  pleasure  she  felt  outweighed  all  other 
thoughts.  But  as  the  minutes  lengthened  to  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  then  to  half  an  hour,  she  grew  nervous,  and  her  answers 
came  more  and  more  shortly.  She  said  to  herself  that  she 
should  never  have  given  him  the  cotillon,  and  she  wondered 
how  the  remainder  of  the  time  would  pass.  The  realisation  of 
what  had  occurred  came  upon  her,  and  the  hot  blood  rose  to 
her  face  and  ebbed  away  again,  and  rose  once  more.  Yet  she 
could  not  speak  out  what  her  pride  prompted  her  to  say,  be¬ 
cause  she  pitied  Giovanni  a  little,  and  was  willing  to  think  for 
a  moment  that  it  was  only  compassion  she  felt,  lest  she  should 
feel  that  she  must  send  him  away. 

But  Giovanni  sat  beside  her,  and  knew  that  the  spell  was 
working  upon  him,  and  that  there  was  no  salvation.  He  had 
taken  her  unawares,  though  he  hardly  knew  it,  when  she  first 
entered,  and  he  asked  her  suddenly  for  a  dance.  He  had 
wondered  vaguely  why  she  had  so  freely  consented;  but, in  the 
wild  delight  of  being  by  her  side,  he  completely  lost  all  hold 
upon  himself,  and  yielded  to  the  exquisite  charm  of  her  pre¬ 
sence,  as  a  man  who  has  struggled  for  a  moment  against  a 
powerful  opiate  sinks  under  its  influence,  and  involuntarily 
acknowledges  his  weakness.  Strong  as  he  was,  his  strength  was 
all  gone,  and  he  knew  not  where  he  should  find  it. 

“You  will  have  to  make  her  some  further  apology,”  said 
Corona,  as  Madame  Mayer’s  red  train  disappeared  through  the 
doorway  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

“  Of  course — I  must  do  something  about  it,”  said  Giovanni, 
absently.  “After  all,  I  do  not  wonder — it  is  amazing  that  I 
should  have  recognised  her  at  all.  I  should  forget  anything 
to-night,  except  that  I  am  to  dance  with  you.” 

The  Duchessa  looked  away,  and  fanned  herself  slowly;  but 
she  sighed,  and  checked  the  deep-drawn  breath  as  by  a  great 
effort.  The  waltz  was  over,  and  the  dancers  streamed  through 
the  intervening  rooms  towards  the  gallery  in  quest  of  fresher 
air  and  freer  space.  Two  and  two  they  came,  quickly  following 
each  other  and  passing  on,  some  filling  the  high  seats  along  the 
walls,  others  hastening  towards  the  supper-rooms  beyond.  A 


104 


SARACINESCA. 


few  minutes  earlier  Saracinesca  and  Corona  had  been  almost 
alone  in  the  great  apartment;  now  they  were  surrounded  on  all 
sides  by  a  chattering  crowd  of  men  and  women,  with  flushed 
faces  or  unnaturally  pale,  according  as  the  effort  of  dancing 
affected  each,  and  the  indistinguishable  din  of  hundreds  of 
voices  so  filled  the  air  that  Giovanni  and  the  Duchessa  could 
hardly  hear  each  other  speak. 

“This  is  intolerable, ”  said  Giovanni,  suddenly.  “You  are 
not  engaged  for  the  last  quadrille  ?  Shall  we  not  go  away  until 
the  cotillon  begins?” 

Corona  hesitated  a  moment,  and  was  silent.  She  glanced 
once  at  Giovanni,  and  again  surveyed  the  moving  crowd. 

“  Yes,”  she  said  at  last;  “let  us  go  away.” 

“  You  are  very  good,”  answered  Giovanni  in  a  low  voice,  as 
he  offered  her  his  arm.  She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  and 
her  face  grew  grave,  as  they  slowly  made  their  way  out  of  the 
room. 

At  last  they  came  tc  the  conservatory,  and  went  in  among  the 
great  plants  and  the  soft  lights.  There  was  no  one  there,  and 
they  slowly  paced  the  broad  walk  that  was  left  clear  all  round 
the  glass-covered  chamber,  and  up  and  down  the  middle.  The 
plants  were  disposed  so  thickly  as  to  form  almost  impenetrable 
walls  of  green  on  either  side;  and  at  one  end  there  was  an  opeu 
space  where  a  little  marble  fountain  played,  around  which  were 
disposed  seats  of  carved  wood.  But  Giovanni  and  Corona  con¬ 
tinued  to  walk  slowly  along  the  tiled  path. 

“Why  did  you  say  I  was  good  just  now?”  asked  Corona  at 
last.  Her  voice  sounded  cold. 

“  I  should  not  have  said  it,  perhaps,”  answered  Giovanni. 
“  I  say  many  things  which  I  cannot  help  saying.  I  am  very 
sorry.” 

“  I  am  very  sorry  too,”  answered  the  Duchessa,  quietly. 

“  Ah!  if  you  knew,  you  would  forgive  me.  If  you  could  guess 
half  the  truth,  you  would  forgive  me.” 

“  I  would  rather  not  guess  it.” 

“Of  course;  but  you  have  already — you  know  it  all.  Have  I 
not  told  you  ?  ”  Giovanni  spoke  in  despairing  tones.  He  was 
utterly  weak  and  spellbound;  he  could  hardly  find  any  words 
at  all. 

“  Don  Giovanni,”  said  Corona,  speaking  very  proudly  and 
calmly,  but  not  unkindly,  “  I  have  known  you  so  long,  I  believe 
you  to  be  so  honourable  a  man,  that  I  am  willing  to  suppose 
that  you  said — what  you  said — in  a  moment  of  madness.” 

“Madness!  It  was  madness;  but  it  is  more  sweet  to  re¬ 
member  than  all  the  other  doings  of  my  life,”  said  Saracinesca, 
his  tongue  unloosed  at  last.  “  If  it  is  madness  to  love  you,  I 
am  mad  past  all  cure.  There  is  no  healing  for  me  now;  I 


SAEACltfESCA. 


105 


shall  never  find  my  senses  again,  for  they  are  lost  in  you,  and 
lost  for  ever.  Drive  me  away,  crush  me,  trample  on  me  if  you 
will;  you  cannot  kill  me  nor  kill  my  madness,  for  I  live  in  you 
and  for  you,  and  I  cannot  die.  That  is  all.  I  am  not  eloquent 
as  other  men  are,  to  use  smooth  words  and  twist  phrases.  I 
love  you - ” 

“  You  have  said  too  much  already — too  much,  far  too  much,” 
murmured  Corona,  in  broken  tones.  She  had  withdrawn  her 
hand  from  his  during  his  passionate  speech,  and  stood  back 
from  him  against  the  dark  wall  of  green  plants,  her  head  droop¬ 
ing  upon  her  breast,  her  fingers  clasped  fast  together.  His  short 
rude  words  were  terribly  sweet  to  hear;  it  was  fearful  to  think 
that  she  was  alone  with  him,  that  one  step  would  bring  her  to 
his  side,  that  with  one  passionate  impulse  she  might  throw  her 
white  arms  about  his  neck,  that  one  faltering  sigh  of  over¬ 
whelming  love  might  bring  her  queenly  head  down  upon  his 
shoulder.  Ah,  God!  how  gladly  she  would  let  her  tears  flow 
and  speak  for  her!  how  unutterably  sweet  it  would  be  to  rest 
for  one  instant  in  his  arms,  to  love  and  be  loved  as  she  longed 
to  be! 

“  You  are  so  cold,”  he  cried,  passionately.  “You  cannot 
understand.  All  spoken  words  are  not  too  much,  are  not  enough 
to  move  you,  to  make  you  see  that  I  do  really  worship  and  adore 
you;  you,  the  whole  of  you — your  glorious  face,  your  sweet 
small  hands,  your  queenly  ways,  the  light  of  your  eyes,  and  the 
words  of  your  lips — all  of  you,  body  and  soul,  I  love.  I  would 
I  might  die  now,  for  you  know  it,  even  if  you  will  not  under¬ 
stand - ” 

He  moved  a  step  nearer  to  her,  stretching  out  his  hands  as  he 
spoke.  Corona  trembled  convulsively,  and  her  lips  turned 
white  in  the  torture  of  temptation;  she  leaned  far  back  against 
the  green  leaves,  staring  wildly  at  Giovanni,  held  as  in  a  vice 
by  the  mighty  passions  of  love  and  fear.  Having  yielded  her 
ears  to  his  words,  they  fascinated  her  horibbly.  He,  poor  man, 
had  long  lost  all  control  of  himself.  His  resolutions,  long  pon¬ 
dered  in  the  solitude  of  Saracinesca,  had  vanished  like  unsub¬ 
stantial  vapours  before  a  strong  fire,  and  his  heart  and  soul 
were  ablaze. 

“Do  not  look  at  me  so,”  he  said  almost  tenderly.  “Do  not 
look  at  me  as  though  you  feared  me,  as  though  you  hated  me. 
Can  you  not  see  that  it  is  I  who  fear  you  as  well  as  love  you, 
who  tremble  at  your  coldness,  who  watch  for  your  slightest  kind 
look  ?  Ah,  Corona,  you  have  made  me  so  happy! — there  is  no 
angel  in  all  heaven  but  would  give  up  his  Paradise  to  change 
for  mine !  ” 

He  had  taken  her  hand  and  pressed  it  wildly  to  his  lips. 
Her  eyelids  drooped,  and  her  head  fell  back  for  one  moment. 


106 


SARACINESCA. 


They  stood  so  very  near  that  his  arm  had  almost  stolen  about 
her  slender  waist,  he  almost  thought  he  was  supporting  her. 

Suddenly,  without  the  least  warning,  she  drew  herself  up  to 
her  full  height,  and  thrust  Giovanni  back  to  her  arm’s  length, 
strongly,  almost  roughly. 

“  Never!  ”  she  said.  “  I  am  a  weak  woman,  but  not  so  weak 
as  that.  I  am  miserable,  but  not  so  miserable  as  to  listen  to 
you.  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  you  say  you  love  me — God  grant  it 
is  not  true!  but  you  say  it.  Then,  have  you  no  honour,  no 
courage,  no  strength  ?  Is  there  nothing  of  the  man  left  in  you  ? 
Is  there  no  truth  in  your  love,  no  generosity  in  your  heart  ?  If 
you  so  love  me  as  you  say  you  do,  do  you  care  so  little  what  be¬ 
comes  of  me  as  to  tempt  me  to  love  you  ?” 

She  spoke  very  earnestly,  not  scornfully  nor  angrily,  but  in 
the  certainty  of  strength  and  right,  and  in  the  strong  persuasion 
that  the  headstrong  man  would  hear  and  be  convinced.  She 
was  weak  no  longer,  for  one  desperate  moment  her  fate  had 
trembled  in  the  balance,  but  she  had  not  hesitated  even  then; 
she  had  struggled  bravely,  and  her  brave  soul  had  won  the  great 
battle.  She  had  been  weak  the  other  day  at  the  theatre,  in  let¬ 
ting  herself  ask  the  question  to  which  she  knew  the  answer;  she 
had  been  miserably  weak  that  very  night  in  so  abandoning  her¬ 
self  to  the  influence' she  loved  and  dreaded;  but  at  the  great 
moment,  when  heaven  and  earth  swam  before  her  as  in  a  wild 
and  unreal  mirage,  with  the  voice  of  the  man  she  loved  ring¬ 
ing  in  her  ears,  speaking  such  words  as  it  was  an  ecstasy  to  hear, 
she  had  been  no  longer  weak — the  reality  of  danger  had  brought 
forth  the  sincerity  of  her  goodness,  and  her  heart  had  found 
courage  to  do  a  great  deed.  She  had  overcome,  and  she 
knew  it. 

Giovanni  stood  back  from  her,  and  hung  his  head.  In  a 
moment  the  force  of  his  passion  was  checked,  and  from  the 
supreme  verge  of  unspeakable  and  rapturous  delight,  he  was 
cast  suddenly  into  the  depths  of  his  own  remorse.  He  stood 
silent  before  her,  trembling  and  awestruck. 

“  You  cannot  understand  me,”  she  said,  “  I  do  not  under¬ 
stand  myself.  But  this  I  know,  that  you  are  not  what  you 
have  seemed  to-night — that  there  is  enough  manliness  and 
nobility  in  you  to  respect  a  woman,  and  that  you  will  hereafter 
prove  that  I  am  right.  I  pray  that  I  may  not  see  you  any 
more;  but  if  I  must  see  you,  I  will  trust  you  thus  much — say 
that  I  may  trust  you,”  she  added,  her  strong  smooth  voice  sink¬ 
ing  in  a  trembling  cadence,  half  beseeching,  and  yet  wholly 
commanding. 

Saracinesca  bent  his  heavy  brows,  and  was  silent  for  a  mo¬ 
ment.  Then  he  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met  hers,  and  seemed 
to  gather  strength  from  her. 


SARACINESCA. 


10? 


“  If  you  will  let  me  see  you  sometimes,  you  may  trust  me. 
I  would  I  were  as  noble  and  good  as  you — I  am  not.  I  will  try 
to  be.  Ah,  Corona!  ”  he  cried  suddenly,  “  forgive  me,  forgive 
me!  I  hardly  knew  what  I  said.” 

“Hush!”  said  the  Duchessa,  gently;  “you  must  not  speak 
like  that,  nor  call  me  Corona.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong  to  forgive 
you  wholly,  but  I  believe  in  you.  I  believe  you  will  under¬ 
stand,  and  that  you  will  be  worthy  of  the  trust  I  place  in  you.” 

“  Indeed,  Duchessa,  none  shall  say  that  they  have  trusted  me 
in  vain,”  answered  Giovanni  very  proudly — “  neither  man  nor 
woman — and,  least  of  all  women,  you.” 

“  That  is  well,”  said  she,  with  a  faint  shadow  of  a  smile. 
“I  would  rather  see  you  proud  than  reckless.  See  that  you 
remain  so — that  neither  by  word  nor  deed  you  ever  remind  me 
that  I  have  had  anything  to  forgive.  It  is  the  only  way  in 
which  any  intercourse  between  us  can  be  possible  after  this — 
this  dreadful  night.” 

Giovanni  bowed  his  head.  He  was  still  pale,  but  he  had 
regained  control  of  himself. 

“  I  solemnly  promise  that  I  will  not  recall  it  to  your  memory, 
and  I  implore  your  forgiveness,  even  though  you  cannot  forget.” 

“I  cannot  forget,”  said  Corona,  almost  under  her  breath. 
Giovanni's  eyes  flashed  for  a  moment.  “  Shall  we  go  back  to 
the  ball-room  ?  I  will  go  home  soon.” 

As  they  turned  to  go,  a  loud  crash,  as  of  broken  glass,  with 
the  fall  of  some  heavy  body,  startled  them,  and  made  them 
stand  still  in  the  middle  of  the  walk.  The  noisy  concussion 
was  followed  by  a  complete  silence.  Corona,  whose  nerves  had 
been  severely  tried,  trembled  slightly. 

“It  is  strange,”  she  said;  “  they  say  it  always  happens.” 

There  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  The  thick  web  of  plants  hid 
the  cause  of  the  noise  from  view,  whatever  it  might  be.  Gio¬ 
vanni  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  about  to  see  how  he  could 
get  behind  the  banks  of  flower-pots.  Then  he  left  Corona 
without  a  word,  and  striding  to  the  end  of  the  walk,  disap¬ 
peared  into  the  depths  of  the  conservatory.  He  had  noticed 
that  there  was  a  narrow  entrance  at  the  end  nearest  the  foun¬ 
tain,  intended  probably  to  admit  the  gardener  for  the  purpose 
of  watering  the  plants.  Corona  could  hear  his  quick  steps;  she 
thought  she  heard  a  low  groan  and  a  voice  whispering, — but 
she  might  have  been  mistaken,  for  the  place  was  large,  and  her 
heart  was  beating  fast. 

Giovanni  had  not  gone  far  in  the  narrow  way,  which  was 
sufficiently  lighted  by  the  soft  light  of  the  many  candles  con¬ 
cealed  in  various  parts  of  the  conservatory,  when  he  came  upon 
the  figure  of  a  man  sitting,  as  he  had  apparently  fallen,  across 
the  small  passage.  The  fragments  of  a  heavy  earthenware  vase 


108 


SARACINESCA. 


lay  beyond  him,  with  a  heap  of  earth  and  roots;  and  the  tall 
india-rubber  plant  which  grew  in  it  had  fallen  against  the  slop¬ 
ing  glass  roof  and  shattered  several  panes.  As  Giovanni  came 
suddenly  upon  him,  the  man  struggled  to  rise,  and  in  the  dim 
light  Saracinesca  recognized  Del  Ferice.  The  truth  flashed 
upon  him  at  once.  The  fellow  had  been  listening,  and  had 
probably  heard  all.  Giovanni  instantly  resolved  to  conceal  the 
fact  from  the  Duchessa,  to  whom  the  knowledge  that  the  pain¬ 
ful  scene  had  been  overheard  w'ould  be  a  bitter  mortification. 
Giovanni  could  undertake  to  silence  the  eavesdropper. 

Quick  as  thought  his  strong  brown  hands  gripped  the  throat 
of  Ugo  Del  Ferice,  stifling  his  breath  like  a  collar  of  iron. 

“Dog!”  he  whispered  fiercely  in  the  wretch’s  ear,  “if  you 
breathe,  I  will  kill  you  now!  You  will  find  me  in  my  own 
house  in  an  hour.  Be  silent  now !  ”  Giovanni  whispered,  with 
such  a  terrible  grip  on  the  fellow’s  throat  that  his  eyeballs 
seemed  starting  from  his  head.  Then  he  turned  and  went  out 
by  the  way  he  had  entered,  leaving  Del  Ferice  writhing  with 
pain  and  gasping  for  breath.  As  he  joined  Corona,  his  face 
betrayed  no  emotion — he  had  been  so  pale  before  that  he  could 
not  turn  whiter  in  his  anger — but  his  eyes  gleamed  fiercely  at 
the  thought  of  fight.  The  Duchessa  stood  where  he  had  left 
her,  still  much  agitated. 

“It  is  nothing,”  said  Giovanni,  with  a  forced  laugh,  as  he 
offered  her  his  arm  and  led  her  quickly  away.  “  Imagine.  A 
great  vase  with  one  of  Frangipani’s  favourite  plants  in  it  had 
been  badly  propped,  and  had  fallen  right  through  the  glass, 
outward.” 

“  It  is  strange,”  said  Corona.  “  I  was  almost  sure  I  heard  a 
groan.” 

“  It  was  the  wind.  The  glass  was  broken,  and  it  is  a  stormy 
night.” 

“  That  was  just  the  way  that  window  fell  in  five  years  ago,” 
said  Corona.  “Something  always  happens  here.  I  think  I 
will  go  home — let  us  find  my  husband.” 

No  one  would  have  guessed,  from  Corona’s  face,  that  any¬ 
thing  extraordinary  had  occurred  in  the  half-hour  she  had 
spent  in  the  conservatory.  She  walked  calmly  by  Giovanni’s 
side,  not  a  trace  of  excitement  on  her  pale  proud  face,  not  a 
sign  of  uneasiness  in  the  quiet  glance  of  her  splendid  eyes. 
She  had  conquered,  and  she  knew  it,  never  to  be  tempted 
again;  she  had  conquered  herself  and  she  had  overcome  the 
man  beside  her.  Giovanni  glanced  at  her  in  wondering  ad¬ 
miration. 

“  You  are  the  bravest  woman  in  the  world,  as  I  am  the  most 
contemptible  of  men,”  he  said  suddenly,  as  they  entered  the 
picture-gallery. 


SARACINESCA. 


109 


“  I  am  not  brave,”  she  answered  calmly,  “  neither  are  you 
contemptible,  my  friend.  W e  have  both  been  very  near  to  our 
destruction,  but  it  has  pleased  God  to  save  us.” 

“  By  you,”  said  Saracinesca,  very  solemnly.  He  knew  that 
within  six  hours  he  might  be  lying  dead  upon  some  plot  of 
wet  grass  without  the  city,  and  he  grew  very  grave,  after  the 
manner  of  brave  men  when  death  is  abroad. 

“  You  have  saved  my  soul  to-night,”  he  said  earnestly. 
“  Will  you  give  me  your  blessing  and  whole  forgiveness  ?  Do 
not  laugh  at  me,  nor  think  me  foolish.  The  blessing  of  such 
women  as  you  should  make  men  braver  and  better.” 

The  gallery  was  again  deserted.  The  cotillon  had  begun, 
and  those  who  were  not  dancing  were  at  supper.  Corona  stood 
still  for  one  moment  by  the  very  chair  where  they  had  sat  so 
long. 

“I  forgive  you  wholly.  I  pray  that  all  blessings  may  be 
upon  you  always,  in  life  and  in  death,  for  ever.” 

Giovanni  bowed  his  head  reverently.  It  seemed  as  though 
the  w^oman  he  so  loved  was  speaking  a  benediction  upon  his 
death,  a  last  in  pace  which  should  follow  him  for  all  eternity. 

“  In  life  and  in  death,  I  will  honour  you  truly  and  serve  you 
faithfully  for  ever,”  he  answered.  As  he  raised  his  head,  Corona 
saw  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  she  felt  that  there 
were  tears  in  her  own. 

“  Come,”  she  said,  and  they  passed  on  in  silence. 

She  found  her  husband  at  last  in  the  supper-room.  He  was 
leisurely  discussing  the  wing  of  a  chicken  and  a  small  glass  of 
claret-and-water,  with  a  gouty  ambassador  whose  wife  had  in¬ 
sisted  upon  dancing  the  cotillon,  and  who  was  revenging  him¬ 
self  upon  a  Strasbourg  pdte  and  a  bottle  of  dry  champagne. 

“  Ah,  my  dear,”  said  Astrardente,  looking  up  from  his  mod¬ 
est  fare,  “you  have  been  dancing  ?  You  have  come  to  supper  ? 
You  are  very  wise.  I  have  danced  a  great  deal  myself,  but  I 
have  not  seen  you — the  room  was  so  crowded.  Here — this 
small  table  will  hold  us  all,  just  a  quartet.” 

“Thanks — I  am  not  hungry.  Will  you  take  me  home  when 
you  have  finished  supper  ?  Or  are  you  going  to  stay  ?  Do  not 
wait,  Don  Giovanni;  I  know  you  are  busy  in  the  cotillon.  My 
husband  will  take  care  of  me.  Good  night.” 

Giovanni  bowed,  and  went  away,  glad  to  be  alone  at  last.  He 
had  to  be  at  home  in  half  an  hour  according  to  his  engagement, 
and  he  had  to  look  about  him  for  a  friend.  All  Rome  was  at 
the  ball;  but  the  men  upon  whom  he  could  call  for  such  ser¬ 
vice  as  he  required,  were  all  dancing.  Moreover,  he  reflected 
that  in  such  a  matter  it  was  necessary  to  have  some  one  espe¬ 
cially  trustworthy.  It  would  not  do  to  have  the  real  cause  of 
the  duel  known,  and  the  choice  of  a  second  was  a  very  impor- 


110 


SARACINESCA. 


tant  matter.  He  never  doubted  that  Del  Ferice  would  send 
some  one  with  a  challenge  at  the  appointed  time.  Del  Ferice 
was  a  scoundrel,  doubtless;  but  he  was  quick  with  the  foils,  and 
had  often  appeared  as  second  in  affairs  of  honour. 

Giovanni  stood  by  the  door  of  the  ball-room,  looking  at  the 
many  familiar  faces,  and  wondering  how  he  could  induce  any 
one  to  leave  his  partner  at  that  hour,  and  go  home  with  him. 
Suddenly  he  was  aware  that  his  father  was  standing  beside  him 
and  eyeing  him  curiously. 

“What  is  the  matter,  Giovannino  ?”  inquired  the  old  Prince. 
“  Why  are  you  not  dancing?” 

“  The  fact  is - ”  began  Giovanni,  and  then  stopped  sud¬ 

denly.  An  idea  struck  him.  He  went  close  to  his  father,  and 
spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

“  The  fact  is,  that  I  have  just  taken  a  man  by  the  throat  and 
otherwise  insulted  him,  by  calling  him  a  dog.  The  fellow 
seemed  annoyed,  and  so  I  told  him  he  might  send  to  our  house 
in  an  hour  for  an  explanation.  I  cannot  find  a  friend,  because 
everybody  is  dancing  this  abominable  cotillon.  Perhaps  you 
can  help  me,”  he  added,  looking  at  his  father  rather  doubt¬ 
fully.  To  his  surprise  and  considerable  relief  the  old  Prince 
burst  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

“Of  course,”  he  cried.  “What  do  you  take  me  for?  Do 
you  think  I  would  desert  my  boy  in  a  fight  ?  Go  and  call  my 
carriage,  and  wait  for  me  while  I  pick  up  somebody  for  a  wit¬ 
ness;  we  can  talk  on  the  way  home.” 

The  old  Prince  had  been  a  duellist  in  his  day,  and  he  would 
no  more  have  thought  of  advising  his  son  not  to  fight  than  of 
refusing  a  challenge  himself.  He  was,  moreover,  exceedingly 
bored  at  the  ball,  and  not  in  the  least  sleepy.  The  prospect  of 
an  exciting  night  was  novel  and  delightful.  He  knew  Gio¬ 
vanni’s  extraordinary  skill,  and  feared  nothing  for  him.  He 
knew  everybody  in  the  ball-room  was  engaged,  and  he  went 
straight  to  the  supper-table,  expecting  to  find  some  one  there. 
Astrardente,  the  Duchessa,  and  the  gouty  ambassador  were  still 
together,  as  Giovanni  had  left  them  a  moment  before.  The 
Prince  did  not  like  Astrardente,  but  he  knew  the  ambassador 
very  well.  He  called  him  aside,  with  an  apology  to  the  Du¬ 
chessa. 

“  I  want  a  young  man  immediately,”  said  old  Saracinesca, 
stroking  his  white  beard  with  his  broad  brown  hand.  “  Can 
you  tell  of  any  one  who  is  not  dancing?” 

“There  is  Astrardente,”  answered  his  Excellency,  with  an 
ironical  smile.  “  A  duel  ?  ”  he  asked. 

Saracinesca  nodded. 

“I  am  too  old,”  said  the  diplomatist,  thoughtfully;  “but  it 
would  be  infinitely  amusing.  I  cannot  give  you  one  of  my 


SARACINESCA. 


Ill 


secretaries  either.  It  always  makes  such  a  scandal.  Oh,  there 
goes  the  very  man  !  Catch  him  before  it  is  too  late  !  ” 

Old  Saracinesca  glanced  in  the  direction  the  ambassador  in¬ 
dicated,  and  darted  away.  He  was  as  active  as  a  boy,  in  spite 
of  his  sixty  years. 

“  Eh  !  ”  he  cried.  “  Hi  !  you  !  Come  here  !  Spicca  ! 
Stop  !  Excuse  me — I  am  in  a  great  hurry  !  ” 

Count  Spicca,  whom  he  thus  addressed,  paused  and  looked 
round  through  his  single  eyeglass  in  some  surprise.  He  was  an 
immensely  tall  and  cadaverous-looking  man,  with  a  black 
beard  and  searching  grey  eyes. 

“  I  really  beg  your  pardon,”  said  the  Prince  hurriedly,  in  a 
low  voice,  as  he  came  up,  “  but  I  am  in  a  great  hurry — an  affair 
of  honour — will  you  be  witness  ?  My  carriage  is  at  the  door.” 

“With  pleasure,”  said  Count  Spicca,  quietly;  and  without 
further  comment  he  accompanied  the  Prince  to  the  outer  hall. 
Giovanni  was  waiting,  and  the  Prince’s  footman  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  In  three  minutes  the  father  and  son  and 
the  melancholy  Spicca  were  seated  in  the  carriage,  on  their  way 
to  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca. 

“  Now  then,  Giovannino,”  said  the  Prince,  as  he  lit  a  cigarette 
in  the  darkness,  “  tell  us  all  about  it.” 

“  There  is  not  much  to  tell,”  said  Giovanni.  “  If  the  chal¬ 
lenge  arrives,  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  fight.  I  took 
him  by  the  throat  and  nearly  strangled  him.” 

“  Whom  ?  ”  asked  Spicca,  mournfully. 

“  Oh  !  it  is  Del  Fence,”  answered  Giovanni,  who  had  for¬ 
gotten  that  he  had  not  mentioned  the  name  of  his  probable  an¬ 
tagonist.  The  Prince  laughed. 

“  Del  Ferice  !  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  He  is  a  dead 
man/  What  was  it  all  about  ?  ” 

“  That  is  unnecessary  to  say  here,”  said  Giovanni,  quietly. 
“  He  insulted  me  grossly.  I  half-strangled  him,  and  told  him 
he  was  a  dog.  I  suppose  he  will  fight.” 

“Ah  yes;  he  will  probably  fight,”  repeated  Spicca,  thought¬ 
fully.  “  What  are  your  weapons,  Don  Giovanni  ?  ” 

“  Anything  he  likes.” 

“  But  the  choice  is  yours  if  he  challenges,”  returned  the 
Count. 

“As  you  please.  Arrange  all  that — foils,  swords,  or  pistols.” 

“  You  do  not  seem  to  take  much  interest  in  this  affair,”  re¬ 
marked  Spicca,  sadly. 

“  He  is  best  with  foils,”  said  the  old  Prince. 

“Foils  or  pistols,  of  course,”  said  the  Count.  “Swords  are 
child’s  play.” 

Satisfied  that  his  seconds  meant  business,  Giovanni  sank  back 
in  his  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  was  silent. 


112 


SARACINESCA. 


“We  had  better  have  the  meeting  m  my  villa/*  said  his 
father.  “  If  it  rains,  they  can  fight  indoors.  I  will  send  for 
the  surgeon  at  once.** 

In  a  few  moments  they  reached  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca. 
The  Prince  left  word  at  the  porter’s  lodge  that  any  gentlemen 
who  arrived  were  to  be  admitted,  and  all  three  went  up-stairs. 
It  was  half-past  two  o’clock. 

As  they  entered  the  apartments,  they  heard  a  carriage  drive 
under  the  great  archway  below. 

“  Go  to  your  rooms,  Giovannino,”  said  the  old  Prince. 
“  These  fellows  are  punctual.  I  will  call  you  when  they  are 
gone.  I  suppose  you  mean  business  seriously  ?  ” 

“  I  care  nothing  about  him.  I  will  give  him  any  satisfaction 
he  pleases,”  answered  Giovanni.  “  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to 
undertake  the  matter — I  am  very  grateful.” 

“  I  would  not  leave  it  to  anybody  else,”  muttered  the  old 
Prince,  as  he  hurried  away  to  meet  Del  Ferice’s  seconds. 

Giovanni  entered  his  own  rooms,  and  went  straight  to  his 
writing-table.  He  took  a  pen  and  a  sheet  of  paper  and  began 
writing.  His  face  was  very  grave,  but  his  hand  was  steady. 
For  more  than  an  hour  he  wrote  without  pausing.  Then  his 
father  entered  the  room. 

“  Well  ?”  said  Giovanni,  looking  up. 

“  It  is  all  settled,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  seriously.  “  I 
was  afraid  they  might  make  some  objection  to  me  as  a  second. 
You  know  there  is  an  old  clause  about  near  relations  acting  in 
such  cases.  But  they  declared  that  they  considered'  my  co¬ 
operation  an  honour — so  that  is  all  right.  You  must  do  your 
best,  my  boy.  This  rascal  means  to  hurt  you  if  he  can.  Seven 
o’clock  is  the  time.  We  must  leave  here  at  half-past  six. 
You  can  sleep  two  hours  and  a  half.  I  will  sit  up  and  call 
you.  Spicca  has  gone  home  to  change  his  clothes,  and  is 
coming  back  immediately.  Now  lie  down.  I  will  see  to  your 

foils - ” 

“  Is  it  foils,  then  ?”  asked  Giovanni,  quietly. 

“  Yes.  They  made  no  objection.  You  had  better  lie 
down.” 

“  I  will.  Father,  if  anything  should  happen  to  me — it  may, 
you  know — you  will  find  my  keys  in  this  drawer,  and  this 
letter,  which  I  beg  you  will  read.  It  is  to  yourself.” 

“Nonsense,  my  dear  boy!  Nothing  will  happen  to  you — 
you  will  just  run  him  through  the  arm  and  come  home  to 
breakfast.” 

The  old  Prince  spoke  in  his  rough  cheerful  way;  but  his 
voice  trembled,  and  he  turned  aside  to  hide  two  great  tears 
that  had  fallen  upon  his  dark  cheeks  and  were  losing  them¬ 
selves  in  his  white  beard. 


SAKACINESCA. 


113 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Giovanni  slept  soundly  for  two  hours.  He  was  very  tired 
with  the  many  emotions  of  the  night,  and  the  arrangements 
for  the  meeting  being  completed,  it  seemed  as  though  work 
were  over  and  the  pressure  removed.  It  is  said  that  men  will 
sleep  for  hours  when  the  trial  is  over  and  the  sentence  of  death 
has  been  passed;  and  though  it  was  more  likely  that  Del 
Ferice  would  be  killed  than  that  Giovanni  would  be  hurt,  the 
latter  felt  not  unlike  a  man  who  has  been  tried  for  his  life. 
He  had  suffered  in  a  couple  of  hours  almost  every  emotion 
of  which  he  was  capable — his  love  for  Corona,  long  controlled 
and  choked  down,  had  broken  bounds  at  last,  and  found 
expression  for  itself;  he  had  in  a  moment  suffered  the  severest 
humiliation  and  the  most  sincere  sorrow  at  her  reproaches;  he 
had  known  the  fear  of  seeing  her  no  more,  and  the  sweetness 
of  pardon  from  her  own  lips;  he  had  found  himself  on  a  sud¬ 
den  in  a  frenzy  of  righteous  wrath  against  Del  Ferice,  and  a 
moment  later  he  had  been  forced  to  hide  his  anger  under  a 
calm  face;  and  at  last,  when  the  night  was  far  spent,  he  had 
received  the  assurance  that  in  less  than  four  hours  he  would 
have  ample  opportunity  for  taking  vengeance  upon  the  cow¬ 
ardly  eavesdropper  who  had  so  foully  got  possession  of  the 
one  secret  he  held  dear.  Worn  out  with  all  he  had  suffered,  and 
calm  in  the  expectation  of  the  morning’s  struggle,  Giovanni  lay 
down  upon  his  bed  and  slept. 

Del  Ferice,  on  the  contrary,  was  very  wakeful.  He  had  an 
unpleasant  sensation  about  his  throat  as  though  he  had  been 
hanged,  and  cut  down  before  he  was  dead;  and  he  suffered  the 
unutterable  mortification  of  knowing  that,  after  a  long  and 
successful  social  career,  he  had  been  detected  by  his  worst 
enemy  in  a  piece  of  disgraceful  villany.  In  the  first  place, 
Giovanni  might  kill  him.  Del  Ferice  was  a  very  good  fencer, 
but  Saracinesca  was  stronger  and  more  active;  there  was  cer¬ 
tainly  considerable  danger  in  the  duel.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
he  survived,  Giovanni  had  him  in  his  power  for  the  rest  of  his 
life,  and  there  was  no  escape  possible.  He  had  been  caught 
listening — caught  in  a  flagrantly  dishonest  trick — and  he  well 
knew  that  if  the  matter  had  been  brought  before  a  jury  of 
honour,  he  would  have  been  declared  incompetent  to  claim  any 
satisfaction. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Del  Ferice  had  done  such  things, 
but  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  caught.  He  cursed  his 
awkwardness  in  oversetting  the  vase  just  at  the  moment  when 
his  game  was  successfully  played  to  the  end — just  when  he 
thought  that  he  began  to  see  land,  in  having  discovered  beyond 
all  doubt  that  Giovanni  was  devoted  body  and  soul  to  Corona 


114 


SARACINESCA. 


d’Astrardente.  The  information  had  been  necessary  to  him, 
for  he  was  beginning  seriously  to  press  his  suit  with  Donna 
Tullia,  and  he  needed  to  be  sure  that  Giovanni  was  not  a  rival 
to  be  feared.  He  had  long  suspected  Saracinesca’s  devotion  to 
the  dark  Duchessa,  and  by  constantly  putting  himself  in  his  way, 
he  had  done  his  best  to  excite  his  jealousy  and  to  stimulate  his 
passion.  Giovanni  never  could  have  considered  Del  Ferice  as 
a  rival;  the  idea  would  have  been  ridiculous.  But  the  con¬ 
stant  annoyance  of  finding  the  man  by  Corona’s  side,  when  he 
desired  to  be  alone  with  her,  had  in  some  measure  heightened 
the  effect  Del  Ferice  desired,  though  it  had  not  actually  pro¬ 
duced  it.  Being  a  good  judge  of  character,  he  had  sensibly 
reckoned  his  chances  against  Giovanni,  and  he  had  formed  so 
just  an  opinion  of  the  man’s  bold  and  devoted  character  as  to 
be  absolutely  sure  that  if  Saracinesca  loved  Corona  he  would 
not  .seriously  think  of  marrying  Donna  Tullia.  He  had  done 
all  he  could  to  strengthen  the  passion  when  he  guessed  it  was 
already  growing,  and  at  the  very  moment  when  he  had  received 
circumstantial  evidence  of  it  which  placed  it  beyond  all  doubt, 
he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  discovered,  through  his  own  un¬ 
pardonable  carelessness. 

Evidently  the  only  satisfactory  way  out  of  the  difficulty  was 
to  kill  Giovanni  outright,  if  he  could  do  it.  In  that  way  he 
would  rid  himself  of  an  enemy,  and  at  the  same  time  of  the 
evidence  against  himself.  The  question  was,  how  this  could 
be  accomplished;  for  Giovanni  was  a  man  of  courage,  strength, 
and  experience,  and  he  himself — Ugo  del  Ferice — possessed 
none  of  those  qualities  in  any  great  degree.  The  result  was, 
that  he  slept  not  at  all,  but  passed  the  night  in  a  state  of 
nervous  anxiety  by  no  means  conducive  to  steadiness  of  hand 
or  calmness  of  the  nerves.  He  was  less  pleased  than  ever  when 
he  heard  that  Giovanni’s  seconds  were  his  own  father  and  the 
melancholy  Spicca,  who  was  the  most  celebrated  duellist  in 
Italy,  in  spite  of  his  cadaverous  long  body,  his  sad  voice,  and 
his  expression  of  mournful  resignation  to  the  course  of  events. 

In  the  event  of  his  neither  killing  Don  Giovanni  nor  being 
himself  killed,  what  he  most  dreaded  was  the  certainty  that 
for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  must  be  in  his  enemy’s  power.  He 
knew  that,  for  Corona’s  sake,  Giovanni  would  not  mention  the 
cause  of  the  duel,  and  no  one  could  have  induced  him  to  speak 
of  it  himself;  but  it  would  be  a  terrible  hindrance  in  his  life 
to  feel  at  every  turn  that  the  man  he  hated  had  the  power  to 
expose  him  to  the  world  as  a  scoundrel  of  the  first  water. 
What  he  had  heard  gave  him  but  small  influence  over  Saraci¬ 
nesca,  though  it  was  of  great  value  in  determining  his  own 
action.  To  say  aloud  to  the  world  that  Giovanni  loved  the 
Duchessa  d’Astrardente  would  be  of  little  use,  Del  Ferice 


SARACINESCA. 


115 


could  not,  for  very  shame,  tell  how  he  had  found  it  out;  and 
there  was  no  other  proof  but  his  evidence,  for  he  guessed  that 
from  that  time  forward  the  open  relation  between  the  two 
would  be  even  more  formal  than  before — and  the  most  credu¬ 
lous  people  do  not  believe  in  a  great  fire  unless  they  can  see  a 
little  smoke.  He  had  not  even  the  advantage  of  turning  the 
duel  to  account  in  his  interest  with  Donna  Tullia,  since  Gio¬ 
vanni  could  force  him  to  deny  that  she  was  implicated  in  the 
question,  on  pain  of  exposing  his  treachery.  There  was  pal¬ 
pably  no  satisfactory  way  out  of  the  matter  unless  he  could  kill 
his  adversary.  He  would  have  to  leave  the  country  for  a  while; 
but  Giovanni  once  dead,  it  would  be  easy  to  make  Donna 
Tullia  believe  they  had  fought  on  her  account,  and  to  derive 
all  the  advantage  there  was  to  be  gained  from  posing  before 
the  world  as  her  defender. 

But  though  Del  Ferice’s  rest  was  disturbed  by  the  contem¬ 
plation  of  his  difficulties,  he  did  not  neglect  any  precaution 
which  might  save  his  strength  for  the  morrow.  He  lay  down 
upon  his  bed,  stretching  himself  at  full  length,  and  carefully 
keeping  his  right  arm  free,  lest,  by  letting  his  weight  fall  upon 
it  as  he  lay,  he  should  benumb  the  muscles  or  stiffen  the  joints; 
from  time  to  time  he  rubbed  a  little  strengthening  ointment 
upon  his  wrist,  and  he  was  careful  that  the  light  should  not 
shine  in  his  eyes  and  weary  them.  At  six  o’clock  his  seconds 
appeared  with  the  surgeon  they  had  engaged,  and  the  four 
men  were  soon  driving  rapidly  down  the  Corso  towards  the  gate. 

So  punctual  were  the  two  parties  that  they  arrived  simul¬ 
taneously  at  the  gate  of  the  villa  which  had  been  selected  for 
the  encounter.  The  old  Prince  took  a  key  from  his  pocket 
and  himself  opened  the  great  iron  gate.  The  carriages  drove 
in,  and  the  gates  were  closed  by  the  astonished  porter,  who 
came  running  out  as  they  creaked  upon  their  hinges.  The 
light  was  already  sufficient  for  the  purpose  of  fencing,  as  the 
eight  men  descended  simultaneously  before  the  house.  The 
morning  was  cloudy,  but  the  ground  was  dry.  The  principals 
and  seconds  saluted  each  other  formally.  Giovanni  withdrew 
to  a  little  distance  on  one  side  with  his  surgeon,  and  Del  Ferice 
stood  aside  with  his. 

The  melancholy  Spicca,  who  looked  like  the  shadow  of  death 
in  the  dim  morning  light,  was  the  first  to  speak. 

“  Of  course  you  know  the  best  spot  in  the  villa  ?  ”  he  said  to 
the  old  Prince. 

“As  there  is  no  sun,  I  suggest  that  they  fight  upon  the 
ground  behind  the  house.  It  is  hard  and  dry.” 

The  whole  party  followed  old  Saracinesca.  Spicca  had  the 
foils  in  a  green  bag.  The  place  suggested  by  the  Prince  seemed 
in  every  way  adapted,  and  Del  Ferice’s  seconds  made  no  objec- 


116 


SARACINESCA. 


tion.  There  was  absolutely  no  choice  of  position  upon  the 
ground,  which  was  an  open  space  about  twenty  yards  square, 
hard  and  well  rolled,  preferable  in  every  way  to  a  grass  lawn. 

Without  further  comment,  Giovanni  took  off  his  coat  and 
waistcoat,  and  Del  Ferice,  who  looked  paler  and  more  unhealthy 
than  usual,  followed  his  example.  The  seconds  crossed  sides  to 
examine  the  principals'  shirts,  and  to  assure  themselves  that 
they  wore  no  flannel  underneath  the  unstarched  linen.  This 
formality  being  accomplished,  the  foils  were  carefully  com¬ 
pared,  and  Giovanni  was  offered  the  first  choice.  He  took  the 
one  nearest  his  hand,  and  the  other  was  carried  to  Del  Ferice. 
They  were  simple  fencing  foils,  the  buttons  being  removed  and 
the  points  sharpened — there  was  nothing  to  choose  between 
them.  The  seconds  then  each  took  a  sword,  and  stationed  the 
combatants  some  seven  or  eight  paces  apart,  while  they  them¬ 
selves  stood  a  little  aside,  each  upon  the  right  hand  of  his 
principal,  and  the  witnesses  placed  themselves  at  opposite 
corners  of  the  ground,  the  surgeons  remaining  at  the  ends 
behind  the  antagonists.  There  was  a  moment's  pause.  When 
all  was  ready,  old  Saracinesca  came  close  to  Giovanni,  while 
Del  Fence's  second  approached  his  principal  in  like  manner. 

“  Giovanni,"  said  the  old  Prince,  gravely,  “as  your  second  I 
am  bound  to  recommend  you  to  make  any  advance  in  your 
power  towards  a  friendly  understanding.  Can  you  do  so?" 

“No,  father,  I  cannot,"  answered  Giovanni,  with  a  slight 
smile.  His  face  was  perfectly  calm,  and  of  a  natural  colour. 
Old  Saracinesca  crossed  the  ground,  and  met  Casalverde,  the 
opposite  second,  half-way.  Each  formally  expressed  to  the 
other  his  great  regret  that  no  arrangement  would  be  possible, 
and  then  retired  again  to  the  right  hand  of  his  principal. 

“  Gentlemen,"  said  the  Prince,  in  a  loud  voice,  “  are  you 
ready?"  As  both  men  bowed  their  assent,  he  added  imme¬ 
diately,  in  a  sharp  tone  of  command,  “  In  guard  ! " 

Giovanni  and  Del  Ferice  each  made  a  step  forward,  saluted 
each  other  with  their  foils,  repeated  the  salute  to  the  seconds 
and  witnesses,  and  then  came  face  to  face  and  fell  into  position. 
Each  made  one  thrust  in  tierce  at  the  other,  in  the  usual 
fashion  of  compliment,  each  parrying  in  the  same  manner. 

“  Halt  ! "  cried  Saracinesca  and  Casalverde,  in  the  same  breath. 

“  In  guard  ! "  shouted  the  Prince  again,  and  the  duel 
commenced. 

In  a  moment  the  difference  between  the  two  men  was  appa¬ 
rent.  Del  Ferice  fenced  in  the  Neapolitan  style— his  arm  straight 
before  him,  never  bending  from  the  elbow,  making  all  his  play 
with  his  wrist,  his  back  straight,  and  his  knees  so  much  bent 
that  he  seemed  not  more  than  half  his  height.  He  made  his 
movements  short  and  quick,  and  relatively  few,  in  evident  fear 


SARACINESCA. 


117 


of  tiring  himself  at  the  start.  To  a  casual  observer  his  fence 
was  less  graceful  than  his  antagonist’s,  his  lunges  less  daring, 
his  parries  less  brilliant.  But  as  the  old  Prince  watched  him 
he  saw  that  the  point  of  his  foil  advanced  and  retreated  in  a 
perfectly  straight  line,  and  in  parrying  described  the  smallest 
circle  possible,  while  his  cold  watery  blue  eye  was  fixed  steadily 
upon  his  antagonist;  old  Saracinesca  ground  his  teeth,  for  he 
saw  that  the  man  was  a  most  accomplished  swordsman. 

Giovanni  fought  with  the  air  of  one  who  defended  himself, 
without  much  thought  of  attack.  He  did  not  bend  so  low  as 
Del  Ferice,  his  arm  doubled  a  little  before  his  lunge,  and  his 
foil  occasionally  made  a  wide  circle  in  the  air.  He  seemed 
careless,  but  in  strength  and  elasticity  he  was  far  superior  to 
his  enemy,  and  could  perhaps  afford  to  trust  to  these  advan¬ 
tages,  when  a  man  like  Del  Ferice  was  obliged  to  employ  his 
whole  skill  and  science. 

They  had  been  fencing  for  more  than  two  minutes,  without 
any  apparent  result,  w'hen  Giovanni  seemed  suddenly  to  change 
his  tactics.  He  lowered  the  point  of  his  weapon  a  little,  and, 
keeping  it  straight  before  him,  began  to  press  more  closely  upon 
his  antagonist.  Del  Ferice  kept  his  arm  at  full  length,  and 
broke  ground  for  a  yard  or  two,  making  clever  feints  in  carte 
at  Giovanni’s  body,  with  the  object  of  stopping  his  advance. 
But  Giovanni  pressed  him,  and  suddenly  made  a  peculiar 
movement  with  his  foil,  bringing  it  in  contact  with  his  enemy’s 
along  its  length. 

“  Halt !  ”  cried  Casalverde.  Both  men  lowered  their  weapons 
instantly,  and  the  seconds  sprang  forward  and  touched  their 
swords  between  them.  Giovanni  bit  his  lip  angrily. 

“  Why  4  halt  ’  ?  ”  asked  the  Prince,  sharply.  “  Neither  is 
touched.” 

“  My  principal’s  shoe-string  is  untied,”  answered  Casalverde, 
calmly.  It  was  true.  “He  might  easily  trip  and  fall,”  ex¬ 
plained  Del  Ferice’s  friend,  bending  down  and  proceeding  to 
tie  the  silk  ribbon.  The  Prince  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
retired  with  Giovanni  a  few  steps  back. 

“  Giovanni,”  he  said,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion,  “  if 
you  are  not  more  careful,  he  will  do  you  a  mischief.  For 
heaven’s  sake  run  him  through  the  arm  and  let  us  be  done 
with  it.” 

“  I  should  have  disarmed  him  that  time  if  his  second  had  not 
stopped  us,”  said  Giovanni,  calmly.  “  He  is  ready  again,”  he 
added,  “  come  on.” 

“  In  guard  !” 

Again  the  two  men  advanced,  and  again  the  foils  crossed 
and  recrossed  and  rang  loudly  in  the  cold  morning  air.  Once 
more  Giovanni  pressed  upon  Del  Ferice,  and  Del  Ferice  broke 


118 


SARACINESCA. 


ground.  In  answer  to  a  quick  feint,  Giovanni  made  a  round 
parry  and  a  sharp  short  lunge  in  tierce. 

“  Halt  !  ”  yelled  Casalverde.  Old  Saracinesca  sprang  in,  and 
Giovanni  lowered  his  weapon.  But  Casalverde  did  not  inter¬ 
pose  his  sword.  A  full  two  seconds  after  the  cry  to  halt,  Del 
Ferice  lunged  right  forward.  Giovanni  thrust  out  his  arm  to 
save  his  body  from  the  foul  attempt — he  had  not  time  to  raise 
his  weapon.  Del  Ferice’s  sharp  rapier  entered  his  wrist  and 
tore  a  long  wound  nearly  to  the  elbow. 

Giovanni  said  nothing,  but  his  sword  dropped  from  his  hand 
and  he  turned  upon  his  father,  white  with  rage.  The  blood 
streamed  down  his  sleeve,  and  his  surgeon  came  running 
towards  him. 

The  old  man  had  understood  at  a  glance  the  foul  play  that 
had  been  practised,  and  going  forward  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
arm  of  Del  Ferice’s  second. 

“  Why  did  you  stop  them,  sir  ?  And  where  was  your  sword  ?  ” 
he  said  in  great  anger.  Del  Ferice  was  leaning  upon  his  friend ; 
a  greenish  pallor  had  overspread  his  face,  but  there  was  a  smile 
under  his  colourless  moustache. 

“  My  principal  was  touched,”  said  Casalverde,  pointing  to  a 
tiny  scratch  upon  Del  Fence’s  neck,  from  which  a  single  drop 
of  blood  was  slowly  oozing. 

“Then  why  did  you  not  prevent  your  principal  from  thrust¬ 
ing  after  you  cried  the  halt  ?  ”  asked  Saracinesca,  severely. 
“  You  have  singularly  misunderstood  your  duties,  sir,  and 
when  these  gentlemen  are  satisfied,  you  will  be  answerable  to 
me.” 

Casalverde  was  silent. 

“I  protest  myself  wholly  satisfied,”  said  Ugo,  with  a  disa¬ 
greeable  smile,  as  he  glanced  to  where  the  surgeon  was  binding 
up  Giovanni’s  arm. 

“  Sir,”  said  old  Saracinesca,  fiercely  addressing  the  second, 
“  I  am  not  here  to  bandy  words  with  your  principal.  He  may 
express  himself  satisfied  through  you,  if  he  pleases.  My  prin¬ 
cipal,  through  me,  expresses  his  entire  dissatisfaction.” 

“  Your  principal,  Prince,”  answered  Casalverde,  coldly,  “  is 
unable  to  proceed,  seeing  that  his  right  arm  is  injured.” 

“My  son,  sir,  fences  as  readily  with  his  left  hand  as  with  his 
right,”  returned  old  Saracinesca. 

Del  Ferice’s  face  fell,  and  his  smile  vanished  instantly. 

“In  that  case  we  are  ready,”  returned  Casalverde,  unable, 
however,  to  conceal  his  annoyance.  He  was  a  friend  of  Del 
Ferice’s  and  would  gladly  have  seen  Giovanni  run  through  the 
body  by  the  foul  thrust. 

There  was  a  moment’s  consultation  on  the  other  side. 

“  I  will  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  killing  that  gentleman 


SARACINESCA. 


119 


to-morrow  morning,”  remarked  Spicca,  as  he  mournfully 
watched  the  surgeon's  operations. 

“Unless  I  kill  him  myself  to-day,”  returned  the  Prince  sav¬ 
agely,  in  his  white  beard.  “Are  you  ready,  Giovannino  ?  ”  It 
never  occurred  to  him  to  ask  his  son  if  he  was  too  badly  hurt 
to  proceed. 

Giovanni  never  spoke,  but  the  hot  blood  had  mounted  to  his 
temples,  and  he  was  dangerously  angry.  He  took  the  foil  they 
gave  him,  and  felt  the  point  quietly.  It  was  sharp  as  a  needle. 
He  nodded  to  his  father's  question,  and  they  resumed  their 
places,  the  old  Prince  this  time  standing  on  the  left,  as  his  son 
had  changed  hands.  Del  Ferice  came  forward  rather  timidly. 
His  courage  had  sustained  him  so  far,  but  the  consciousness  of 
having  done  a  foul  deed,  and  the  sight  of  the  angry  man  be¬ 
fore  him,  were  beginning  to  make  him  nervous.  He  felt  un¬ 
comfortable,  too,  at  the  idea  of  fencing  against  a  left-handed 
antagonist. 

Giovanni  made  one  or  two  lunges,  and  then,  with  a  strange 
movement  unlike  anything  any  one  present  was  acquainted 
with,  seemed  to  wind  his  blade  round  Del  Ferice's,  and,  with  a 
violent  jerk  of  the  wrist,  sent  the  weapon  flying  across  the  open 
space.  It  struck  a  window  of  the  house,  and  crashed  through 
the  panes. 

“More  broken  glass!”  said  Giovanni  scornfully,  as  he  low¬ 
ered  his  point  and  stepped  back  two  paces.  “  Take  another 
sword,  sir,”  he  said;  “  I  will  not  kill  you  defenceless.” 

“  Good  heavens,  Giovannino !  ”  exclaimed  his  father  in  the 
greatest  excitement ;  “  where  on  earth  did  you  learn  that  trick  ?  ” 

“On  my  travels,  father,”  returned  Giovanni,  with  a  smile; 
“  where  you  tell  me  I  learned  so  much  that  was  bad.  He  looks 
frightened,”  he  added  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  glanced  at  Del  Fe¬ 
rice's  livid  face. 

“He  has  cause,”  returned  the  Prince,  “if  he  ever  had  in  his 
life!” 

Casalverde  and  his  witness  advanced  from  the  other  side 
with  a  fresh  pair  of  foils;  for  the  one  that  had  gone  through 
the  window  could  not  be  recovered  at  once,  and  was  probably 
badly  bent  by  the  twist  it  had  received.  The  gentlemen  of¬ 
fered  Giovanni  his  choice. 

“  If  there  is  no  objection  I  will  keep  the  one  I  have,”  said 
he  to  his  father.  The  foils  were  measured,  and  were  found  to 
be  alike.  The  two  gentlemen  retired,  and  Del  Ferice  chose  a 

weapon. 

“  That  is  right,”  said  Spicca,  as  he  slowly  went  back  to  his 
place.  “  You  should  never  part  with  an  old  friend.” 

“  We  are  ready!”  was  called  from  the  opposite  side. 

“In  guard,  then!”  cried  the  Prince.  The  angry  flush  had 


120 


SARACINESCA. 


not  subsided  from  Giovanni’s  forehead,  as  he  again  went  for¬ 
ward.  Del  Ferice  came  up  like  a  man  who  has  suddenly  made 
up  his  mind  to  meet  death,  with  a  look  of  extraordinary  deter¬ 
mination  on  his  pale  face. 

Before  they  had  made  half-a-dozen  passes  Ugo  slipped,  or 
pretended  to  slip,  and  fell  upon  his  right  knee;  but  as  he  came 
to  the  ground,  he  made  a  sharp  thrust  upwards  under  Gio¬ 
vanni’s  extended  left  arm. 

The  old  Prince  uttered  a  fearful  oath,  that  rang  and  echoed 
along  the  walls  of  the  ancient  villa.  Del  Ferice  had  executed 
the  celebrated  feint  known  long  ago  as  the  “  Oolpo  del  Tan- 
credi,”  “  Tancred’s  lunge,”  from  the  supposed  name  of  its  in¬ 
ventor.  It  is  now  no  longer  permitted  in  duelling.  But  the 
deadly  thrust  loses  half  its  danger  against  a  left-handed  man. 
The  foil  grazed  the  flesh  on  Giovanni’s  left  side,  and  the  blood 
again  stained  his  white  shirt.  In  the  moment  when  Del  Fe¬ 
rice  slipped,  Giovanni  had  made  a  straight  and  deadly  lunge  at 
his  body,  and  the  sword,  instead  of  passing  through  Ugo’s 
lungs,  ran  swift  and  sure  through  his  throat,  with  such  force 
that  the  iron  guard  struck  the  falling  man’s  jaw  with  tremen¬ 
dous  impetus,  before  the  oath  the  old  Prince  had  uttered  was 
fairly  out  of  his  mouth. 

Seconds  and  witnesses  and  surgeons  sprang  forward  hastily. 
Del  Ferice  lay  upon  his  side;  he  had  fallen  so  heavily  and  sud¬ 
denly  as  to  wrench  the  sword  from  Giovanni’s  grip.  The  old 
Prince  gave  one  look,  and  dragged  his  son  away. 

He  is  as  dead  as  a  stone,”  he  muttered,  with  a  savage  gleam 
in  his  eyes. 

Giovanni  hastily  began  to  dress,  without  paying  any  atten¬ 
tion  to  the  fresh  wound  he  had  received  in  the  last  encounter. 
In  the  general  excitement,  his  surgeon  had  joined  the  group 
about  the  fallen  man.  Before  Giovanni  had  got  his  overcoat 
on  he  came  back  with  Spicca,  who  looked  crestfallen  and  disap¬ 
pointed. 

“He  is  not  dead  at  all,”  said  the  surgeon.  “  You  did  the 
thing  with  a  master’s  hand — you  ran  his  throat  through  with¬ 
out  touching  the  jugular  artery  or  the  spine.” 

“  Does  he  want  to  go  on  ?  ”  asked  Giovanni,  so  savagely  that 
the  three  men  stared  at  him. 

“  Do  not  be  so  bloodthirsty,  Giovannino,”  said  the  old  Prince, 
reproachfully. 

“  I  should  be  justified  in  going  back  and  killing  him  as  he 
lies  there,”  said  the  younger  Saracinesca,  fiercely.  “  He  nearly 
murdered  me  twice  this  morning.” 

“  That  is  true,”  said  the  Prince,  “  the  dastardly  brute !  ” 

“  By  the  bye,”  said  Spicca,  lighting  a  cigarette,  “  I  am  afraid 
I  have  deprived  you  of  the  pleasure  of  dealing  with  the  man 


S  ARACIN  ESC  A. 


121 


who  called  himself  Del  Derice’s  second.  I  just  took  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  having  a  moment’s  private  conversation  with  him — 
we  disagreed  a  little.” 

“Oh,  very  well,”  growled  the  Prince;  “as  you  please.  I 
daresay  I  shall  have  enough  to  do  in  taking  care  of  Giovanni 
to-morrow.  That  is  a  villanous  bad  scratch  on  his  arm.” 

“Bah!  it  is  nothing  to  mention,  save  for  the  foul  way  it  was 
given,”  said  Giovanni  between  his  teeth. 

Once  more  old  Saracinesca  and  Spicca  crossed  the  ground. 
There  was  a  word  of  formality  exchanged,  to  the  effect  that 
both  combatants  were  satisfied,  and  then  Giovanni  and  his 
party  moved  off,  Spicca  carrying  his  green  bag  of  foils  under 
his  arm,  and  puffing  clouds  of  smoke  into  the  damp  morning 
air.  They  had  been  nearly  an  hour  on  the  ground,  and  were 
chilled  with  cold,  and  exhausted  for  want  of  sleep.  They  en¬ 
tered  their  carriage  and  drove  rapidly  homewards. 

“  Come  in  and  breakfast  with  us,”  said  the  old  Prince  to 
Spicca,  as  they  reached  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca. 

“  Thank  you,  no,”  answered  the  melancholy  man.  “  I  have 
much  to  do,  as  I  shall  go  to  Paris  to-morrow  morning  by  the 
ten  o’clock  train.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  there  ?  I  shall 
be  absent  some  months.” 

“  I  thought  you  were  going  to  fight  to-morrow,”  objected 
the  Prince. 

“  Exactly.  It  will  be  convenient  for  me  to  leave  the  country 
immediately  afterwards.” 

The  old  man  shuddered.  With  all  his  fierce  blood  and 
headstrong  passion,  he  could  not  comprehend  the  fearful  calm 
of  this  strange  man,  whose  skill  was  such  that  he  regarded  his 
adversary’s  death  as  a  matter  of  course  whenever  he  so  pleased. 
As  for  Giovanni,  he  was  still  so  angry  that  he  cared  little  for 
the  issue  of  the  second  duel. 

“  I  am  sincerely  grateful  for  your  kind  offices,”  he  said,  as 
Spicca  took  leave  of  him. 

“  You  shall  be  amply  revenged  of  the  two  attempts  to  mur¬ 
der  you,”  said  Spicca,  quietly;  and  so,  having  shaken  hands 
with  all,  he  again  entered  the  carriage.  It  was  the  last  they 
saw  of  him  for  a  long  time.  He  faithfully  fulfilled  his  pro¬ 
gramme.  He  met  Casalverde  on  the  following  morning  at 
seven  o’clock,  and  at  precisely  a  quarter  past,  he  left  him  dead 
on  the  field.  He  breakfasted  with  his  seconds  at  half-past 
eight,  and  left  Rome  with  them  for  Paris  at  ten  o’clock.  He 
had  selected  two  French  officers  who  were  about  to  return  to 
their  home,  in  order  not  to  inconvenience  any  of  his  friends  by 
obliging  them  to  leave  the  country ;  which  showed  that,  even 
in  moments  of  great  excitement,  Count  Spicca  was  thoughtful 
of  others. 


122 


SARACTNESCA. 


When  the  surgeon  had  dressed  Giovanni’s  wounds,  he  left 
the  father  and  son  together.  Giovanni  lay  upon  a  couch  in 
his  own  sitting-room,  eating  his  breakfast  as  best  he  could 
with  one  hand.  The  old  Prince  paced  the  floor,  commenting 
from  time  to  time  upon  the  events  of  the  morning. 

“  It  is  just  as  well  that  you  did  not  kill  him,  Giovannino,” 
he  remarked;  “it  would  have  been  a  nuisance  to  have  been 
obliged  to  go  away  just  now.” 

Giovanni  did  not  answer. 

“  Of  course,  duelling  is  a  great  sin,  and  is  strictly  forbidden 
by  our  religion,”  said  the  Prince  suddenly.  “  But  then - ” 

“  Precisely,”  returned  Giovanni.  “  We  nevertheless  cannot 
always  help  ourselves.” 

“  I  was  going  to  say,”  continued  his  father,  “  that  it  is,  of 
course,  very  wicked,  and  if  one  is  killed  in  a  duel,  one  probably 
goes  straight  into  hell.  But  then — it  was  worth  something 
to  see  how  you  sent  that  fellow’s  foil  flying  through  the 
window !  ” 

“It  is  a  very  simple  trick.  If  you  will  take  a  foil,  I  will 
teach  it  to  you.” 

“  Presently,  presently ;  when  you  have  finished  your  break¬ 
fast.  Tell  me,  why  did  you  say,  ‘more  broken  glass’ ?” 

Giovanni  bit  his  lip,  remembering  his  imprudence. 

“  I  hardly  know.  I  believe  it  suggested  something  to  my 
mind.  One  says  all  sorts  of  foolish  things  in  moments  of 
excitement.” 

“  It  struck  me  as  a  very  odd  remark,”  answered  the  Prince, 
still  walking  about.  “  By  the  bye,”  he  added,  pausing  before 
the  writing-table,  “  here  is  that  letter  you  wrote  for  me.  Do 
you  want  me  to  read  it  ?  ” 

“  No,”  said  Giovanni,  with  a  laugh.  “  It  is  of  no  use  now. 
It  would  seem  absurd,  since  I  am  alive  and  well.  It  was  only 
a  word  of  farewell.” 

The  Prince  laughed  too,  and  threw  the  sealed  letter  into  the 
fire. 

“  The  last  of  the  Saracinesca  is  not  dead  yet,”  he  said. 
“  Giovanni,  what  are  we  to  say  to  tjie  gossips  ?  All  Rome  will 
be  ringing  with  this  affair  before  night.  Of  course,  you  must 
stay  at  home  for  a  few  days,  or  you  will  catch  cold  in  your 
arm.  I  will  go  out  and  carry  the  news  of  our  victory.” 

“  Better  to  say  nothing  about  it — better  to  refer  people  to 
Del  Ferice,  and  tell  them  he  challenged  me.  Come  in !  ”  cried 
Giovanni,  in  answer  to  a  knock  at  the  door.  Pasquale,  the  old 
butler,  entered  the  room. 

“  The  Duca  d’Astrardente  has  sent  to  inquire  after  the 
health  of  his  Excellency  Don  Giovanni,”  said  the  old  man, 
respectfully. 


SARACINESCA. 


123 


The  elder  Saracinesca  paused  in  his  walk,  and  broke  out 
into  a  loud  laugh. 

“  Already !  You  see,  Giovannino,”  he  said.  “  Tell  him, 
Pasquale,  that  Don  Giovanni  caught  a  severe  cold  at  the  ball 
last  night — or  no — wait !  What  shall  we  say,  Giovannino  ?  ” 

“  Tell  the  servant,”  said  Giovanni,  sternly,  “that  I  am  much 
obliged  for  the  kind  inquiry,  that  I  am  perfectly  well,  and  that 
you  have  just  seen  me  eating  my  breakfast.” 

Pasquale  bowed  and  left  the  room. 

“  I  suppose  you  do  not  want  her  to  know - ”  said  the 

Prince,  who  had  suddenly  recovered  his  gravity. 

Giovanni  bowed  his  head  silently. 

“  Quite  right,  my  boy,”  said  the  old  man,  gravely.  “  I  do 
not  want  to  know  anything  about  it  either.  How  the  devil 
could  they  have  found  out  ?  ” 

The  question  was  addressed  more  to  himself  than  to  his  son, 
and  the  latter  volunteered  no  answer.  He  was  grateful  to  his 
father  for  his  considerate  silence. 


'  CHAPTER  XIII. 

When  Astrardente  saw  the  elder  Saracinesca’s  face  during 
his  short  interview  with  the  diplomatist,  his  curiosity  was 
immediately  aroused.  He  perceived  that  there  was  something 
the  matter,  and  he  proceeded  to  try  and  ascertain  the  circum¬ 
stances  from  his  acquaintance.  The  ambassador  returned  to 
his  pate  and  his  champagne  with  an  air  of  amused  interest, 
but  vouchsafed  no  information  whatever. 

“  What  a  singularly  amusing  fellow  old  Saracinesca  is  !  ” 
remarked  Astrardente. 

“  When  he  likes  to  be,”  returned  his  Excellency,  with  his 
mouth  full. 

“  On  the  contrary — when  he  least  meditates  it.  I  never 
knew  a  man  better  suited  for  a  successful  caricature.  Indeed 
he  is  not  a  bad  caricature  of  his  own  son,  or  his  own  son  of 
him — I  am  not  sure  which.” 

The  ambassador  laughed  a  little  and  took  a  large  mouthful. 

“  Ha  !  ha  !  very  good,”  he  mumbled  as  he  ate.  “  He  would 
appreciate  that.  He  loves  his  own  race.  He  would  rather 
feel  that  he  is  a  comic  misrepresentation  of  the  most  hideous 
Saracinesca  who  ever  lived,  than  possess  all  the  beauty  of  the 
Astrardente  and  be  called  by  another  name.” 

The  diplomatist  paused  for  a  second  after  this  speech,  and 
then  bowed  a  little  to  the  Duchessa  ;  but  the  hit  had  touched 
her  husband  in  a  sensitive  spot.  The  old  dandy  had  been 
handsome  once,  in  a  certain  way,  and  he  did  his  best,  by  arti- 


124 


SARACINESCA. 


ficial  means,  to  preserve  some  trace  of  his  good  looks.  The 
Duchessa  smiled  faintly. 

“  I  would  wager,”  said  Astrardente,  sourly,  “  that  his  excited 
manner  just  now  was  due  to  one  of  two  things— either  his 
vanity  or  his  money  is  in  danger.  As  for  the  way  he  yelled 
after  Spicca,  it  looked  as  though  there  were  a  duel  in  the  air — 
fancy  the  old  fellow  fighting  a  duel  !  Too  ridiculous  !  ” 

“  A  duel  !  ”  repeated  Corona  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  do  not  see  anything  so  very  ridiculous  in  it,”  said  the 
diplomatist,  slowly  twisting  his  glass  of  champagne  in  his 
fingers,  and  then  sipping  it.  “  Besides,”  he  added  delibe¬ 
rately,  glancing  at  the  Duchessa  from  the  corner  of  his  eyes, 
“  he  has  a  son.” 

Corona  started  very  slightly. 

“  Why  should  there  be  a  duel  ?”  she  asked. 

“  It  was  your  husband  who  suggested  the  idea,”  returned 
the  diplomatist. 

“  But  you  said  there  was  nothing  ridiculous  in  it,”  objected 
the  Duchessa. 

“  But  I  did  not  say  there  was  any  truth  in  it,  either,”  an¬ 
swered  his  Excellency  with  a  reassuring  smile.  “  What  made 
you  think  of  duelling  ?”  he  asked,  turning  to  Astrardente. 

“  Spicca,”  said  the  latter.  “  Wherever  Spicca  is  concerned 
there  is  a  duel.  He  is  a  terrible  fellow,  with  his  deathVliead 
and  dangling  bones— one  of  those  extraordinary  phenomena — 
bah!  it  makes  one  shiver  to  think  of  him!”  The  old  fellow 
made  the  sign  of  the  horns  with  his  forefinger  and  little  finger, 
hiding  his  thumb  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  as  though  to  pro¬ 
tect  himself  against  the  evil  eye — the  sinister  influence  invoked 
by  the  mention  of  Spicca.  Old  Astrardente  was  very  super¬ 
stitious.  The  ambassador  laughed,  and  even  Corona  smiled  a 
little. 

“Yes,”  said  the  diplomatist,  “Spicca  is  a  living  memento 
mori ;  he  occasionally  reminds  men  of  death  by  killing  them.” 

“  How  horrible !  ”  exclaimed  Corona. 

“  Ah,  my  dear  lady,  the  world  is  full  of  horrible  things.” 

“  That  is  not  a  reason  for  making  jests  of  them.” 

“  It  is  better  to  make  light  of  the  inevitable,”  said  Astrar¬ 
dente.  “  Are  you  ready  to  go  home,  my  dear  ?  ” 

“  Quite — I  was  only  waiting  for  you,”  answered  Corona,  who 
longed  to  be  at  home  and  alone. 

“  Let  me  know  the  result  of  old  Saracinesca’s  warlike  under¬ 
takings,”  said  Astrardente,  with  a  cunning  smile  on  his  painted 
face.  “  Of  course,  as  he  consulted  you,  he  will  send  you  word 
in  the  morning.” 

“You  seem  so  anxious  that  there  should  be  a  duel,  that  I 
should  almost  be  tempted  to  invent  an  account  of  one,  lest  you 


SARACINESCA. 


125 


should  be  too  grievously  disappointed,”  returned  the  diploma¬ 
tist. 

“  You  know  very  well  that  no  invention  will  be  necessary,” 
said  the  Duca,  pressing  him,  for  his  curiosity  was  roused. 

“  Well — as  you  please  to  consider  it.  Good  night,”  replied 
the  ambassador.  It  had  amused  him  to  annoy  Astrardente  a 
little,  and  he  left  him  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  having 
excited  the  inquisitive  faculty  of  his  friend  to  its  highest  pitch, 
without  giving  it  anything  to  feed  upon. 

Men  who  have  to  do  with  men,  rather  than  with  things,  fre¬ 
quently  take  a  profound  and  seemingly  cruel  delight  in  playing 
upon  the  feelings  and  petty  vanities  of  their  fellow-creatures. 
The  habit  is  as  strong  with  them  as  the  constant  practice  of 
conjuring  becomes  with  a  juggler;  even  when  he  is  not  per¬ 
forming,  he  will  for  hours  pass  coins,  perform  little  tricks  of 
sleight-of-hand  with  cards,  or  toss  balls  in  the  air  in  marvellously 
rapid  succession,  unable  to  lay  aside  his  profession  even  for  a 
day,  because  it  has  grown  to  be  the  only  natural  expression  of 
his  faculties.  With  men  whose  business  it  is  to  understand 
other  men,  it  is  the  same.  They  cannot  be  in  a  man’s  com¬ 
pany  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  without  attempting  to  discover 
the  peculiar  weaknesses  of  his  character — his  vanities,  his  tastes, 
his  vices,  his  curiosity,  his  love  of  money  or  of  reputation;  so 
that  the  operation  of  such  men’s  minds  may  be  compared  to  the 
process  of  auscultation — for  their  ears  are  always  upon  their 
neighbours’  hearts — and  their  conversation  to  the  percutations 
of  a  physician  to  ascertain  the  seat  of  disease  in  a  pair  of  con¬ 
sumptive  lungs. 

But,  with  all  his  failings,  Astrardente  was  a  man  of  consider¬ 
able  acuteness  of  moral  vision.  He  had  made  a  shrewd  guess 
at  Saracinesca’s  business,  and  had  further  gathered  from  a 
remark  dropped  by  his  diplomatic  friend,  that  if  there  was  to  be 
a  duel  at  all,  it  would  be  fought  by  Giovanni.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  ambassador  himself  knew  nothing  certainly  concern¬ 
ing  the  matter,  or  it  is  possible  that,  for  the  sake  of  observing 
the  effect  of  the  news  upon  the  Duchessa,  he  would  have  told 
the  whole  truth ;  for  he  had  of  course  heard  the  current  gossip 
concerning  Giovanni’s  passion  for  her,  and  the  experiment 
would  have  been  too  attractive  and  interesting  to  be  missed. 
As  it  was,  she  had  started  at  the  mention  of  Saracinesca’s  son. 
The  diplomatist  only  did  what  every  one  else  who  came  near 
Corona  attempted  to  do  at  that  time,  in  endeavouring  to  ascer¬ 
tain  whether  she  herself  entertained  any  feeling  for  the  man 
whom  the  gossips  had  set  down  as  her  most  devoted  admirer. 

Poor  Duchessa!  It  was  no  wonder  that  she  had  started  at 
the  idea  that  Giovanni  was  in  trouble.  He  had  played  a  great 
part  in  her  life  that  day,  and  she  could  not  forget  him.  She 


126 


SARACINESCA. 


had  hardly  as  yet  had  time  to  think  of  what  she  felt,  for  it  was 
only  by  a  supreme  effort  that  she  had  been  able  to  bear  the 
great  strain  upon  her  strength.  If  she  had  not  loved  him,  it 
would  have  been  different;  and  in  the  strange  medley  of  emo¬ 
tions  through  which  she  was  passing,  she  wished  that  she  might 
never  have  loved — that,  loving,  she  might  be  allowed  wholly  to 
forget  her  love,  and  to  return  by  some  sudden  miracle  to  that 
cold  dreamy  state  of  indifference  to  all  other  men,  and  of  un¬ 
failing  thoughtfulness  for  her  husband,  from  which  she  had 
been  so  cruelly  awakened.  She  would  have  given  anything  to 
have  not  loved,  now  that  the  great  struggle  was  over;  but  until 
the  supreme  moment  had  come,  she  had  not  been  willing  to 
put  the  dangerous  thought  from  her,  saving  in  those  hours  of 
prayer  and  solitary  suffering,  when  the  whole  truth  rose  up 
clearly  before  her  in  its  undisguised  nakedness.  So  soon  as 
she  had  gone  into  the  world,  she  had  recklessly  longed  for  Gio¬ 
vanni  Saracinesca’s  presence. 

But  now  it  was  all  changed.  She  had  not  deceived  herself 
when  she  had  told  him  that  she  would  rather  not  see  him  any 
more.  It  was  true;  not  only  did  she  wish  not  to  see  him,  but 
she  earnestly  desired  that  the  love  of  him  might  pass  from  her 
heart.  With  a  sudden  longing,  her  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
old  convent-life  of  her  girlhood,  with  its  regular  occupations, 
its  constant  religious  exercises,  its  narrowness  of  view,  and  its 
unchanging  simplicity.  What  mattered  narrowness,  when  all 
beyond  that  close  limitation  was  filled  with  evil  ?  Was  it  not 
better  that  the  lips  should  be  busy  with  singing  litanies  than 
that  the  heart  should  be  tormented  by  temptation  ?  Were  not 
those  simple  tasks,  that  had  seemed  so  all-important  then,  more 
sweet  in  the  performance  than  the  manifold  duties  of  this  com¬ 
plicated  social  existence,  this  vast  web  and  woof  of  life’s  loom, 
this  great  machinery  that  worked  and  groaned  and  rolled  end¬ 
lessly  upon  its  wheels  without  producing  any  more  result  than 
the  ceaseless  turning  of  a  prison  treadmill?  But  there  was  no 
way  out  of  life  now;  there  was  no  escape,  as  there  was  also  no 
prospect  of  relief,  from  care  and  anxiety.  There  was  no  reason 
why  Giovanni  should  go  away — no  reason  either  why  Corona 
should  ever  love  him  less.  She  belonged  to  a  class  of  women, 
if  there  are  enough  of  them  to  be  called  a  class,  who,  where 
love  is  concerned,  can  feel  but  one  impression,  which  becomes 
in  their  hearts  the  distinctive  seal  and  mark  of  their  lives,  for 
good  or  for  evil.  Corona  was  indeed  so  loyal  and  good  a  woman, 
that  the  strong  pressure  of  her  love  could  not  abase  her  nobility, 
nor  put  untruth  where  all  was  so  true;  but  the  sign  of  her  love 
for  Giovanni  was  upon  her  for  ever.  The  vacant  place  in  her 
heart  had  been  filled,  and  filled  wholly;  the  bulwark  she  had 
reared  against  the  love  of  man  was  broken  down  and  swept 


SARACIXESCA. 


127 


away,  and  the  waters  flowed  softly  over  its  place  and  remem¬ 
bered  it  not.  She  would  never  be  the  same  woman  again,  and 
it  was  bitter  to  her  to  feel  it:  for  ever  the  face  of  Giovanni 
would  haunt  her  waking  hours  and  visit  her  dreams  unbidden, 
— a  perpetual  reproach  to  her,  a  perpetual  memory  of  the  most 
desperate  struggle  of  her  life,  and  more  than  a  memory — Hie 
undying  present  of  an  unchanging  love. 

She  was  quite  sure  of  herself  in  future,  as  she  also  trusted 
sincerely  in  Giovanni's  promise.  There  should  be  no  moment 
of  weakness,  no  word  should  ever  fall  from  her  lips  to  tempt 
him  to  a  fresh  outbreak  of  passionate  words  and  acts;  her  life 
should  be  measured  in  the  future  by  the  account  of  the  dangers 
past,  and  there  should  be  no  instant  of  unguarded  conduct,  no 
hour  wherein  even  to  herself  she  would  say  it  was  sweet  to  love 
and  to  be  loved.  It  was  indeed  not  sweet,  but  bitter  as  death 
itself,  to  feel  that  weight  at  her  heart,  that  constant  toiling 
effort  in  her  mind  to  keep  down  the  passion  in  her  breast.  But 
Corona  had  sacrificed  much;  she  would  sacrifice  this  also;  she 
would  get  strength  by  her  prayers  and  courage  from  her  high 
pride,  and  she  would  smile  to  all  the  world  as  she  had  never 
smiled  before.  She  could  trust  herself,  for  she  was  doing  the 
right  and  trampling  upon  the  wrong.  But  the  suffering  would 
be  none  the  less  for  all  her  pride;  there  was  no  concealing  it — 
it  would  be  horrible.  To  meet  him  daily  in  the  world,  to  speak 
to  him  and  to  hear  his  voice,  perhaps  to  touch  his  hand,  and  all 
the  while  to  smile  coldly,  and  to  be  still  and  for  ever  above  sus¬ 
picion,  while  her  own  burning  consciousness  accused  her  of  the 
past,  and  seemed  to  make  the  dangers  of  mere  living  yawn 
beside  her  path  at  every  step, — all  this  would  be  terrible  to  bear, 
but  by  God's  help  she  would  bear  it  to  the  end. 

But  now  a  new  horror  seized  her,  and  terrified  her  beyond 
measure.  This  rumour  of  a  duel — a  mere  word  dropped  care¬ 
lessly  in  conversation  by  a  thoughtless  acquaintance — called  up 
to  her  sudden  visions  of  evil  to  come.  Surely,  howsoever  she 
might  struggle  against  love  and  beat  it  roughly  to  silence  in 
her  breast,  it  was  not  wrong  to  fear  danger  for  Giovanni, — it 
could  not  be  a  sin  to  dread  the  issue  of  peril  when  it  was  all  so 
very  near  to  her.  It  might  perhaps  not  be  true,  for  people  in 
the  world  are  willing  to  amuse  their  empty  minds  with  empty 
tales,  acknowledging  the  emptiness.  It  could  not  be  true;  she 
had  seen  Giovanni  but  a  moment  before — he  would  have  given 
some  hint,  some  sign. 

Why — after  all?  Was  it  not  the  boast  of  such  men  that 
they  could  face  the  world  and  wear  an  indifferent  look,  at 
times  of  the  greatest  anxiety  and  danger  ?  But,  again,  if  Gio¬ 
vanni  had  been  involved  in  a  quarrel  so  serious  as  to  require  the 
arbitrament  of  blood,  some  rumour  of  it  would  have  reached 


128 


SARACINESCA. 


her.  She  had  talked  with  many  men  that  night,  and  with 
some  women — gossips  all,  whose  tongues  wagged  merrily  over 
the  troubles  of  friend  or  foe,  and  who  would  have  battened 
upon  anything  so  novel  as  a  society  duel,  as  a  herd  of  jackals 
upon  the  dead  body  of  one  of  their  fellows,  to  make  their  feast 
off  it  with  a  light  heart.  Some  one  of  all  these  would  have 
told  her;  the  quarrel  would  have  been  common  property  in 
half  an  hour,  for  somebody  must  have  witnessed  it. 

It  was  a  consolation  to  Corona  to  reflect  upon  the  extreme 
improbability  of  the  story;  for  when  the  diplomatist  was  gone, 
her  husband  dwelt  upon  it — whether  because  he  could  not  con¬ 
ceal  his  unsatisfied  curiosity,  or  from  other  motives,  it  was 
hard  to  tell. 

Astrardente  led  his  wife  from  the  supper-table  through  the 
great  rooms,  now  almost  deserted,  and  past  the  wide  doors  of 
the  hall  where  the  cotillon  was  at  its  height.  They  paused  a 
moment  and  looked  in,  as  Giovanni  had  done  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  earlier.  It  was  a  magnificent  scene ;  the  lights  flashed  back 
from  the  jewels  of  fair  women,  and  surged  in  the  dance  as  star¬ 
light  upon  rippling  waves.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  odour 
of  the  countless  flowers  that  filled  the  deep  recesses  of  the  win¬ 
dows,  and  were  distributed  in  hundreds  of  nosegays  for  the 
figures  of  the  cotillon;  enchanting  strains  of  waltz  music 
seemed  to  float  down  from  above  and  inspire  the  crowd  of  men 
and  women  with  harmonious  motion,  so  that  sound  was  made 
visible  by  translation  into  graceful  movement.  As  Corona 
looked  there  was  a  pause,  and  the  crowd  parted,  while  a  huge 
tiger,  the  heraldic  beast  of  the  Frangipani  family,  was  drawn 
into  the  hall  by  the  young  prince  and  Bianca  Valdarno.  The 
magnificent  skin  had  been  so  artfully  stuffed  as  to  convey  a 
startling  impression  of  life,  and  in  the  creature’s  huge  jaws 
hung  a  great  basket  filled  with  tiny  tigers,  which  were  to  be 
distributed  as  badges  for  the  dance  by  the  leaders.  A  wild 
burst  of  applause  greeted  this  novel  figure,  and  every  one  ran 
forward  to  obtain  a  nearer  view. 

“  Ah !  ”  exclaimed  old  Astrardente,  “  I  envy  them  that  in¬ 
vention,  my  dear;  it  is  perfectly  magnificent.  You  must  have 
a  tiger  to  take  home.  How  fortunate  we  were  to  be  in  time !  ” 
He  forced  his  way  into  the  crowd,  leaving  his  wife  alone  for  a 
moment  by  the  door;  and  he  managed  to  catch  Valdarno,  who 
was  distributing  the  little  emblems  to  right  and  left.  Madame 
Mayer’s  quick  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  Corona  and  her  hus¬ 
band,  and  from  some  instinct  of  curiosity  she  made  towards 
the  Duchessa.  She  was  still  angry,  as  she  had  never  been  in 
her  short  life,  at  Giovanni’s  rudeness  in  forgetting  her  dance, 
and  she  longed  to  inflict  some  wound  upon  the  beautiful 
woman  who  had  led  him  into  such  forgetfulness.  When 


SARACINESCA. 


129 


Astrardente  left  his  wife’s  side,  Donna  Tullia  pressed  forward 
with  her  partner  in  the  general  confusion  that  followed  upon 
the  entrance  of  the  tiger,  and  she  managed  to  pass  close  to 
Corona.  She  looked  up  suddenly  with  an  air  of  surprise. 

“What!  not  dancing,  Duchessa?”  she  asked.  “Has  your 
partner  gone  home  ? ” 

With  the  look  that  accompanied  the  question,  it  was  an 
insulting  speech  enough.  Had  Donna  Tullia  seen  old  Astrar¬ 
dente  close  behind  her,  she  would  not  have  made  it.  The  old 
dandy  was  returning  in  triumph  in  possession  of  the  little 
tiger-badge  for  Corona.  He  heard  the  words,  and  observed 
with  inward  pleasure  his  wife’s  calm  look  of  indifference. 

“  Madam,”  he  said,  placing  himself  suddenly  in  Madame 
Mayer’s  way,  “  my  wife’s  partners  do  not  go  home  while  she 
remains.” 

“  Oh,  I  see,”  returned  Donna  Tullia,  flushing  quickly;  “  the 
Duchessa  is  dancing  the  cotillon  with  you.  I  beg  your  pardon 
— I  had  forgotten  that  you  still  danced.” 

“  Indeed  it  is  long  since  I  did  myself  the  honour  of  asking 
you  for  a  quadrille,  madam,”  answered  Astrardente  with  a 
polite  smile;  and  so  saying,  he  turned  and  presented  the  little 
tiger  to  his  wife  with  a  courtly  bow.  There  was  good  blood  in 
the  old  roue. 

Corona  was  touched  by  his  thoughtfulness  in  wishing  to  get 
her  the  little  keepsake  of  the  dance,  and  she  was  still  more 
affected  by  his  ready  defence  of  her.  He  was  indeed  sometimes 
a  little  ridiculous,  with  his  paint  and  his  artificial  smile — he 
was  often  petulant  and  unreasonable  in  little  things;  but  he 
was  never  unkind  to  her,  nor  discourteous.  In  spite  of  her 
cold  and  indifferent  stare  at  Donna  Tullia,  she  had  keenly  felt 
the  insult,  and  she  was  grateful  to  the  old  man  for  taking  her 
part.  Knowing  what  she  knew  of  herself  that  night,  she  was 
deeply  sensible  to  his  kindness.  She  took  the  little  gift,  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

“  Forgive  me,”  she  said,  as  they  moved  away,  “  if  I  am  ever 
ungrateful  to  you.  You  are  so  very  good  to  me.  I  know  no 
one  so  courteous  and  kind  as  you  are.” 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  in  delight.  He  loved  her  sin¬ 
cerely  with  all  that  remained  of  him.  There  was  something 
sad  in  the  thought  of  a  man  like  him  finding  the  only  real 
passion  of  his  life  when  worn  out  with  age  and  dissipation. 
Her  little  speech  raised  him  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  joy. 

“  I  am  the  happiest  man  in  all  Rome,”  he  said,  assuming  his 
most  jaunty  walk,  and  swinging  his  hat  gaily  between  his 
thumb  and  finger.  But  a  current  of  deep  thought  was  stirring 
in  him  as  he  went  down  the  broad  staircase  by  his  wife’s  side. 
He  was  thinking  what  life  might  have  been  to  him  had  he 


130 


SARACINESCA. 


found  Corona  del  Carmine — how  could  he  ?  she  was  not  born 
then — had  he  found  her,  or  her  counterpart,  thirty  years  ago. 
He  was  wondering  what  conceivable  sacrifice  there  could  be 
which  he  would  not  make  to  regain  his  youth — even  to  have 
his  life  lived  out  and  behind  him,  if  he  could  only  have  looked 
back  to  thirty  years  of  marriage  with  Corona.  How  differ¬ 
ently  he  would  have  lived,  how  very  differently  he  would  have 
thought!  how  his  whole  memory  would  be  full  of  the  sweet 
past,  and  would  be  common  with  her  own  past  life,  which,  to 
her  too,  would  be  sweet  to  ponder  on !  He  would  have  been 
such  a  good  man — so  true  to  her  in  all  those  years!  But  they 
were  gone,  and  he  had  not  found  her  until  his  foot  was  on  the 
edge  of  the  grave— until  he  could  hardly  count  on  one  year 
more  of  a  pitiful  artificial  life,  painted,  bewigged,  stuffed  to  the 
semblance  of  a  man  by  a  clever  tailor — and  she  in  the  bloom 
of  her  glory  beside  him!  What  he  would  have  given  to  have 
old  Saracinesca’s  strength  and  fresh  vitality — old  Saracinesca 
whom  he  hated!  Yes,  with  all  that  hair — it  was  white,  but  a 
little  dye  would  change  it.  What  was  a  little  dye  compared 
with  the  profound  artificiality  of  his  own  outer  man  ?  How 
the  old  fellow’s  deep  voice  rang,  loud  and  clear,  from  his  broad 
chest!  How  strong  he  was,  with  his  firm  step,  and  his  broad 
brown  hands,  and  his  fiery  black  eyes!  He  hated  him  for  the 
greenness  of  his  age — he  hated  him  for  his  stalwart  son,  an¬ 
other  of  those  long-lived  fierce  Saracinesca,  who  seemed  des¬ 
tined  to  outlive  time.  He  himself  had  no  children,  no  rela¬ 
tions,  no  one  to  bear  his  name — he  had  only  a  beautiful  young 
wife  and  much  wealth,  with  just  enough  strength  left  to  affect 
a  gay  walk  when  he  was  with  her,  and  to  totter  unsteadily  to 
his  couch  when  he  was  alone,  worn  out  with  the  effort  of  trying 
to  seem  young. 

As  they  sat  in  their  carriage  he  thought  bitterly  of  all  these 
things,  and  never  spoke.  Corona  herself  was  weary,  and  glad 
to  be  silent.  They  went  upstairs,  and  as  she  took  his  arm,  she 
gently  tried  to  help  him  rather  than  be  helped.  He  noticed  it, 
and  made  an  effort,  but  he  was  very  tired.  He  paused  upon 
the  landing,  and  looked  at  her,  and  a  gentle  and  sad  smile 
stole  over  his  face,  such  as  Corona  had  never  seen  there. 

“  Shall  we  go  into  your  boudoir  for  ten  minutes,  my  love  ?  ” 
he  said;  “or  will  you  come  into  my  smoking-room?  I  would 
like  to  smoke  a  little  before  going  to  bed.” 

“You  may  smoke  in  my  boudoir,  of  course,”  she  answered 
kindly,  though  she  was  surprised  at  the  request.  It  was  half¬ 
past  three  o’clock.  They  went  into  the  softly  lighted  little 
room,  where  the  embers  of  the  fire  were  still  glowing  upon  the 
hearth.  Corona  dropped  her  furs  upon  a  chair,  and  sat  down 
upon  one  side  of  the  chimneypiece.  Astrardente  sank  wearily 


SARACINESCA. 


131 


into  a  deep  easy-chair  opposite  her,  and  having  found  a  ciga¬ 
rette,  lighted  it,  and  began  to  smoke.  He  seemed  in  a  mood 
which  Corona  had  never  seen.  After  a  short  silence  he  spoke. 

“  Corona,”  he  said,  “I  love  yon.”  His  wife  looked  up  with  a 
gentle  smile,  and  in  her  determination  to  be  loyal  to  him  she 
almost  forgot  that  other  man  who  had  said  those  words  but  two 
hours  before,  so  differently. 

“  Yes,”  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  “  you  have  heard  it  before — it  is 
not  new  to  you.  I  think  you  believe  it.  You  are  good,  but 
you  do  not  love  me — no,  do  not  interrupt  me, my  dear;  I  know 
what  you  would  say.  How  should  you  love  me  ?  I  am  an  old 
man — very  old,  older  than  my  years.”  Again  he  sighed,  more 
bitterly,  as  he  confessed  what  he  had  never  owned  before.  The 
Duchessa  was  too  much  astonished  to  answer  him. 

“  Corona,”  he  said  again,  “  I  shall  not  live  much  longer.” 

“  Ah,  do  not  speak  like  that,”  she  cried  suddenly.  “  I  trust 
and  pray  that  you  have  yet  many  years  to  live.”  Her  husband 
looked  keenly  at  her. 

“  You  are  so  good,”  he  answered,  “  that  you  are  really  capable 
of  uttering  such  a  prayer,  absurd  as  it  would  seem.” 

“  Why  absurd  ?  It  is  unkind  of  you  to  say  it - ” 

“No,  my  dear;  I  know  the  world  very  well.  That  is  all.  I 
suppose  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  make  you  understand  how  I 
love  you.  It  must  seem  incredible  to  you,  in  the  magnificence 
of  your  strength  and  beautiful  youth,  that  a  man  like  me — an 
artificial  man  ” — he  laughed  scornfully — “  a  creature  of  paint 
and  dye — let  me  be  honest — a  creature  with  a  wig,  should  be 
capable  of  a  mad  passion.  And  yet,  Corona,”  he  added,  his 
thin  cracked  voice  trembling  with  a  real  emotion,  “  I  do  love 
you — very  dearly.  There  are  two  things  that  make  my  life 
bitter :  the  regret  that  I  did  not  meet  you,  that  you  were  not 
born,  when  I  was  young;  and  worse  than  that,  the  knowledge 
that  I  must  leave  you  very  soon — I,  the  exhausted  dandy,  the 
shadow  of  what  I  was,  tottering  to  my  grave  in  a  last  vain  effort 
to  be  young  for  your  sake — for  your  sake,  Corona  dear.  Ah,  it 
is  contemptible!”  he  almost  moaned. 

Corona  hid  her  eyes  in  her  hand.  She  was  taken  off  her 
guard  by  his  strange  speech. 

“Oh,  do  not  speak  like  that — do  not!”  she  cried.  “You 
make  me  very  unhappy.  Do  I  reproach  you  ?  Do  I  ever 
make  you  feel  that  you  are — older  than  I  ?  I  will  lead  a  new 
life;  you  shall  never  think  of  it  again.  You  are  too  kind — too 
good  for  me.” 

“  No  one  ever  said  I  was  too  good  before,”  replied  the  old 
man  with  a  shade  of  sadness.  “  I  am  glad  the  one  person  who 
finds  me  good,  should  be  the  only  one  for  whose  sake  I  ever 
cultivated  goodness.  I  could  have  been  different,  Corona,  if  I 


132 


SARACINESCA. 


had  had  you  for  my  wife  for  thirty  years,  instead  of  five.  But 
it  is  too  late  now.  Before  long  I  shall  be  dead,  and  you  will 
be  free.” 

“  What  makes  you  say  such  things  to  me  ?  ”  asked  Corona. 
“  Can  you  think  I  am  so  vile,  so  ungrateful,  so  unloving,  as  to 
wish  your  death  ?  ” 

“Not  unloving;  no,  my  dear  child.  .  But  not  loving,  either. 
I  do  not  ask  impossibilities.  You  will  mourn  for  me  a  while 
— my  poor  soul  will  rest  in  peace  if  you  feel  one  moment  of 
real  regret  for  me,  for  your  old  husband,  before  you  take  an¬ 
other.  Do  not  cry,  Corona,  dearest;  it  is  the  way  of  the  world. 
We  waste  our  youth  in  scoffing  at  reality,  and  in  the  unrealness 
of  our  old  age  the  present  no  longer  avails  us  much.  You 
know  me,  perhaps  you  despise  me.  You  would  not  have 
scorned  me  when  I  was  young — oh,  how  young  I  was!  how 
strong  and  vain  of  my  youth,  thirty  years  ago!  ” 

“Indeed,  indeed,  no  such  thought  ever  crossed  my  mind.  I 
give  you  all  I  have,”  cried  Corona,  in  great  distress;  “  I  will 
give  you  more — I  will  devote  my  whole  life  to  you - ” 

“You  do,  my  dear.  I  am  sensible  of  it,”  said  Astrardente, 
quietly.  “  You  cannot  do  more,  if  you  will;  you  cannot  make 
me  young  again,  nor  take  away  the  bitterness  of  death — of  a 
death  that  leaves  you  behind.” 

Corona  leaned  forward,  staring  into  the  dying  embers  of  the 
fire,  one  hand  supporting  her  chin.  The  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes  and  on  her  cheeks.  The  old  dandy  in  his  genuine  misery 
had  excited  her  compassion. 

“I  would  mourn  you  long,”  she  said.  “You  may  have 
wasted  your  life;  you  say  so.  I  would  love  you  more  if  I  could, 
God  knows.  You  have  always  been  to  me  a  courteous  gentle¬ 
man  and  a  faithful  husband.” 

The  old  man  rose  with  difficulty  from  his  deep  chair,  and 
came  and  stood  by  her,  and  took  the  hand  that  lay  idle  on  her 
knees.  She  looked  up  at  him. 

“If  I  thought  my  blessing  were  worth  anything,  I  would 
bless  you  for  what  you  say.  But  I  would  not  have  you  wraste 
your  youth.  Youth  is  that  which,  being  wasted,  is  like  water 
poured  out  upon  the  ground.  You  must  marry  again,  and 
marry  soon — do  not  start.  You  will  inherit  all  my  fortune; 
you  will  have  my  title.  It  must  descend  to  your  children.  It 
lias  come  to  an  unworthy  end  in  me;  it  must  be  revived  in 
you.” 

“  How  can  you  think  of  it  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  ”  asked  Corona 
kindly,  pressing  gently  his  thin  hand  in  hers.  “  Why  do  you 
dwell  on  the  idea  of  death  to-night  ?  ” 

“I  am  ill;  yes,  past  all  cure,  my  dear,”  said  the  old  man, 
gently  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  kissing  it. 


SAKACINESCA. 


133 


“What  do  you  mean  ?”  asked  Corona,  suddenly  rising  to  her 
feet  and  laying  her  hand  affectionately  upon  his  shoulder. 
“  Why  have  you  never  told  me  ?  ” 

“  Why  should  I  tell  you — except  that  it  is  near,  and  you  must 
be  prepared  ?  Why  should  I  burden  you  with  anxiety  ?  But 
you  were  so  gentle  and  kind  to-night,  upon  the  stairs,”  he  said, 
with  some  hesitation,  “that  I  thought  perhaps  it  would  be  a 
relief  to  you  to  know — to  know  that  it  is  not  for  long.” 

There  was  something  so  gentle  in  his  tone,  so  infinitely 
pathetic  in  his  thought  that  possibly  he  might  lighten  the  bur¬ 
den  his  wife  bore  so  bravely,  there  was  something  at  last  so 
human  in  the  loving  regret  with  which  he  spoke,  that  Corona 
forgot  all  his  foolish  ways,  his  wig  and  his  false  teeth  and  his 
petty  vanities,  and  letting  her  head  fall  upon  his  shoulder,  burst 
into  passionate  tears. 

“  Oh  no,  no!  ”  she  sobbed.  “  It  must  be  a  long  time  yet;  you 
must  not  die !  ” 

“It  may  be  a  year,  not  more,”  he  said  gently.  “  God  bless 
you  for  those  tears,  Corona — the  tears  you  have  shed  for  me. 
Good  night,  my  dearest.” 

He  let  her  sink  upon  her  chair,  and  his  hand  rested  for  one 
moment  upon  her  raven  hair.  Then  with  a  last  remnant  of 
energy  he  quickly  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Such  affairs  as  the  encounter  between  Giovanni  and  Del 
Ferice  were  very  rare  in  Rome.  There  were  many  duels 
fought;  but,  as  a  general  rule,  they  were  not  very  serious,  and 
the  first  slight  wound  decided  the  matter  in  hand  to  the  satis¬ 
faction  of  both  parties.  But  here  there  had  been  a  fight  for 
life  and  death.  One  of  the  combatants  had  received  two  such 
wounds  as  would  have  been  sufficient  to  terminate  an  ordinary 
meeting,  and  the  other  was  lying  at  death's  door  stabbed 
through  the  throat.  Society  was  frantic  with  excitement. 
Giovanni  was  visited  by  scores  of  acquaintances,  whom  he 
allowed  to  be  admitted,  and  he  talked  with  them  cheerfully,  in 
order  to  have  it  thoroughly  known  that  he  was  not  badly  hurt. 
Del  Fence's  lodgingwas  besieged  by  the  same  young  gentlemen 
of  leisure,  who  went  directly  from  one  to  the  other,  anxious  to 
get  all  the  news  in  their  power.  But  Del  Ferice's  door  was 
guarded  jealously  from  intruders  by  his  faithful  Neapolitan 
servant — a  fellow  who  knew  more  about  his  master  than  all  the 
rest  of  Rome  together,  but  who  had  such  a  dazzlingly  brilliant 
talent  for  lying  as  to  make  him  a  safe  repository  for  any  secret 
committed  to  his  keeping.  On  the  present  occasion,  however, 


134 


SARACINESCA. 


he  had  small  use  for  duplicity.  He  sat  all  day  long  by  the 
open  door,  for  he  had  removed  the  bell-handle,  lest  the  ringing 
should  disturb  his  master.  He  had  a  basket  into  which  he 
dropped  the  cards  of  the  visitors  who  called,  answering  each 
inquiry  with  the  same  unchanging  words: 

“  He  is  very  ill,  the  signorino.  Do  not  make  any  noise.” 

“  Where  is  he  hurt  ?  ”  the  visitor  would  ask.  Whereupon 
Temistocle  pointed  to  his  throat. 

“  Will  he  live?”  was  the  next  question;  to  which  the  man 
answered  by  raising  his  shoulders  to  his  ears,  elevating  his  eye¬ 
brows,  and  at  the  same  time  shutting  his  eyes,  while  he  spread 
out  the  palms  of  his  hands  over  his  basket  of  cards — whereby 
he  meant  to  signify  that  he  did  not  know,  but  doubted  greatly. 
It  being  impossible  to  extract  any  further  information  from 
him,  the  visitor  had  nothing  left  but  to  leave  his  card  and  turn 
away.  Within,  the  wounded  man  was  watched  by  a  Sister  of 
Mercy.  The  surgeon  had  pronounced  his  recovery  probable  if 
he  had  proper  care:  the  wound  was  a  dangerous  one,  but  not 
likely  to  prove  mortal  unless  the  patient  died  of  the  fever  or  of 
exhaustion. 

The  young  gentlemen  of  leisure  who  thus  obtained  the  news  of 
the  two  duellists,  lost  no  time  in  carrying  it  from  house  to  house. 
Giovanni  himself  sent  twice  in  the  course  of  the  day  to  inquire 
after  his  antagonist,  and  received  by  his  servant  the  answer 
which  was  given  to  everybody.  By  the  time  the  early  winter 
night  was  descending  upon  Rome,  there  were  two  perfectly 
well-authenticated  stories  circulated  in  regard  to  the  cause  of 
the  quarrel — neither  of  which,  of  course,  contained  a  grain  of 
truth.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  confidently  asserted  by  one 
party,  represented  by  Valdarno  and  his  set,  that  Giovanni  had 
taken  offence  at  Del  Ferice  for  having  proposed  to  call  him  to 
be  examined  before  the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente  in  regard  to 
his  absence  from  town:  that  this  was  a  palpable  excuse  for 
picking  a  quarrel,  because  it  was  well  known  that  Saracinesca 
loved  the  Astradente,  and  that  Del  Ferice  was  always  in  his  way. 

“  Giovanni  is  a  rough  fellow,”  remarked  Valdarno,  “  and  will 
not  stand  any  opposition,  so  lie  took  the  first  opportunity  of 
getting  the  man  out  of  the  way.  Do  you  see  ?  The  old  story 
— l'ealous  of  the  wrong  man.  Can  one  be  jealous  of  Del  Fe¬ 
rice?  Bah!” 

“  And  who  would  have  been  the  right  man  to  attack  ?  ”  was 
asked. 

“  Her  husband,  of  course,”  returned  Valdarno  with  a  sneer. 
“  That  angel  of  beauty  has  the  ineffably  eccentric  idea  that  she 
loves  that  old  transparency,  that  old  magic-lantern  slide  of  a 
man !  ” 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  a  party  of  people  who  affirmed, 


SAKACINESCA. 


135 


as  beyond  all  doubt,  that  the  duel  had  been  brought  about  by 
Giovanni’s  forgetting  his  dance  with  Donna  Tullia.  Del  Fe- 
rice  was  naturally  willing  to  put  himself  forward  in  her  de¬ 
fence,  reckoning  on  the  favour  he  would  gain  in  her  eyes.  He 
had  spoken  sharply  to  Giovanni  about  it,  and  told  him  he  had 
behaved  in  an  ungentlemanly  manner — whereupon  Giovanni 
had  answered  that  it  was  none  of  his  business;  an  altercation 
had  ensued  in  a  remote  room  in  the  Frangipani  palace,  and 
Giovanni  had  lost  his  temper  and  taken  Del  Ferice  by  the 
throat,  and  otherwise  greatly  insulted  him.  The  result  had 
been  the  duel  in  which  Del  Ferice  had  been  nearly  killed. 
There  was  a  show  of  truth  about  this  story,  and  it  was  told  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  make  Del  Ferice  appear  as  the  injured 
party.  Indeed,  whichever  tale  were  true,  there  was  no  doubt 
that  the  two  men  had  disliked  each  other  for  a  long  time,  and 
that  they  were  both  looking  out  for  the  opportunity  of  an  open 
disagreement. 

Old  Saracinesca  appeared  in  the  afternoon,  and  was  sur¬ 
rounded  by  eager  questioners  of  all  sorts.  The  fact  of  his 
having  served  his  own  son  in  the  capacity  of  second  excited 
general  astonishment.  Such  a  thing  had  not  been  heard  of  in 
the  annals  of  Roman  society,  and  many  ancient  wisdom-mon¬ 
gers  severely  censured  the  course  he  had  pursued.  Could  any¬ 
thing  be  more  abominably  unnatural  ?  Was  it  possible  to 
conceive  of  the  hard-heartedness  of  a  man  who  could  stand 
quietly  and  see  his  son  risk  his  life  ?  Disgraceful ! 

The  old  Prince  either  would  not  tell  what  he  knew,  or  had 
no  information  to  give.  The  latter  theory  was  improbable. 
Some  one  made  a  remark  to  that  effect. 

“  But,  Prince,”  the  man  said,  “  would  you  second  your  own 
son  in  an  affair  without  knowing  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  ?  ” 

“  Sir,”  returned  the  old  man,  proudly,  “  my  son  asked  my 
assistance;  I  did  not  sell  it  to  him  for  his  confidence.”  People 
knew  the  old  man’s  obstinacy,  and  had  to  be  satisfied  with  his 
short  answers,  for  he  was  himself  as  quarrelsome  as  a  Berserker 
or  as  one  of  his  own  irascible  ancestors. 

He  met  Donna  Tullia  in  the  street.  She  stopped  her  car¬ 
riage,  and  beckoned  him  to  come  to  her.  She  looked  paler 
than  Saracinesca  had  ever  seen  her,  and  was  much  excited. 

“  How  could  you  let  them  fight  ?  ”  were  her  first  words. 

“  It  could  not  be  helped.  The  quarrel  was  too  serious.  No 
one  would  more  gladly  have  prevented  it  than  I;  but  as  my 
son  had  so  desperately  insulted  Del  Ferice,  he  was  bound  to 
give  him  satisfaction.” 

“  Satisfaction  !  ”  cried  Donna  Tullia.  “  Do  you  call  it  satis¬ 
faction  to  cut  a  man’s  throat?  What  was  the  real  cause  of  the 
quarrel  ?  ” 


136 


S  AKACI^T  ESC  A. 


“  I  do  not  know.” 

“Do  not  tell  me  that — I  do  not  believe  you,”  answered 
Donna  Tullia,  angrily. 

“  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  that  I  do  not  know,”  returned 
the  Prince. 

“  That  is  different.  Will  you  get  in  and  drive  with  me  for  a 
few  minutes  ?  ” 

“  At  your  commands.”  Saracinesca  opened  the  carriage-door 
and  got  in. 

“We  shall  astonish  the  world;  but  I  do  not  care,”  said 
Donna  Tullia.  “  Tell  me,  is  Don  Giovanni  seriously  hurt  ?” 

“No — a  couple  of  scratches  that  will  heal  in  a  week.  Del 
Ferice  is  very  seriously  wounded.” 

“  I  know,”  answered  Donna  Tullia,  sadly.  “  It  is  dreadful — 
I  am  afraid  it  was  my  fault.” 

“IIow  so?”  asked  Saracinesca,  quickly.  He  had  not  heard 
the  story  of  the  forgotten  waltz,  and  was  really  ignorant  of  the 
original  cause  of  disagreement.  He  guessed,  however,  that 
Donna  Tullia  was  not  so  much  concerned  in  it  as  the  Duchessa 
d'Astrardente. 

“  Your  son  was  very  rude  to  me,”  said  Madame  Mayer. 
“Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  tell  you,  but  it  is  best  you  should 
know.  He  was  engaged  to  dance  with  me  the  last  waltz  but 
one  before  the  cotillon.  He  forgot  me,  and  I  found  him  with 
that — with  a  lady — talking  quietly.” 

“With  whom  did  you  say?”  asked  Saracinesca,  very  gravely. 

“With  the  Astrardente — if  you  will  know,”  returned  Donna 
Tullia,  her  anger  at  the  memory  of  the  insult  bringing  the 
blood  suddenly  to  her  face. 

“  My  dear  lady,”  said  the  old  Prince,  “  in  the  name  of  my 
son  1  offer  you  the  humble  apologies  which  he  will  make  in 
person  when  he  is  well  enough  to  ask  your  forgiveness.” 

“I  do  not  want  apologies,”  answered  Madame  Mayer,  turn¬ 
ing  her  face  away. 

“Nevertheless  they  shall  be  offered.  But,  pardon  my  curi¬ 
osity,  how  did  Del  Ferice  come  to  be  concerned  in  that  inci¬ 
dent  ?  ” 

“He  was  with  me  when  I  found  Don  Giovanni  with  the 
Duchessa.  It  is  very  simple.  I  was  very  angry — I  am  very 
angry  still;  but  I  would  not  have  had  Don  Giovanni  risk  his 
life  on  my  account  for  anything,  nor  poor  Del  Ferice  either.  I 
am  horribly  upset  about  it  all.” 

Old  Saracinesca  wondered  whether  Donna  Tu Ilia’s  vanity 
would  suffer  if  he  told  her  that  the  duel  had  not  been  fought 
for  anything  which  concerned  her.  But  he  reflected  that  her 
supposition  was  very  plausible,  and  that  he  himself  had  no  evi¬ 
dence.  Furthermore,  and  in  spite  of  his  good-natured  treat- 


SARACINESCA. 


137 


ment  of  Giovanni,  he  was  very  angry  at  the  thought  that  his 
son  had  quarrelled  about  the  Duchessa.  When  Giovanni 
should  be  recovered  from  his  wounds  he  intended  to  speak  his 
mind  to  him.  But  he  was  sorry  for  Donna  Tullia,  for  he  liked 
her  in  spite  of  her  eccentricities,  and  would  have  been  satisfied 
to  see  her  married  to  his  son.  He  was  a  practical  man,  and  he 
took  a  prosaic  view  of  the  world.  Donna  Tullia  was  rich,  and 
good-looking  enough  to  be  called  handsome.  She  had  the 
talent  to  make  herself  a  sort  of  centre  in  her  world.  She  was 
a  little  noisy;  but  noise  was  fashionable,  and  there  was  no  harm 
in  her — no  one  had  ever  said  anything  against  her.  Besides, 
she  was  one  of  the  few  relations  still  left  to  the  Saracinesca. 
The  daughter  of  a  cousin  of  the  Prince,  she  would  make  a  good 
wife  for  Giovanni,  and  would  bring  sunshine  into  the  house. 
There  was  a  tinge  of  vulgarity  in  her  manner;  but,  like  many 
elderly  men  of  his  type,  Saracinesca  pardoned  her  this  fault  in 
consideration  of  her  noisy  good  spirits  and  general  good-nature. 
He  was  very  much  annoyed  at  hearing  that  his  son  had  otfended 
her  so  grossly  by  his  forgetfulness;  especially  it  was  unfortu¬ 
nate  that  since  she  believed  herself  the  cause  of  the  duel,  she 
should  have  the  impression  that  it  had  been  provoked  by  Del 
Ferice  to  obtain  satisfaction  for  the  insult  Giovanni  had  offered 
her.  There  would  be  small  chance  of  making  the  match  con¬ 
templated  after  such  an  affair. 

“  I  am  sincerely  sorry  ,"  said  the  Prince,  stroking  his  white 
beard  and  trying  to  get  a  sight  of  his  companion's  face,  which 
she  obstinately  turned  away  from  him.  “  Perhaps  it  is  better 
not  to  think  too  much  of  the  matter  until  the  exact  circum¬ 
stances  are  known.  Some  one  is  sure  to  tell  the  story  one  of 
these  days." 

“  How  coldly  you  speak  of  it  !  One  would  think  it  had  hap¬ 
pened  in  Peru,  instead  of  here,  this  very  morning." 

Saracinesca  was  at  his  wits'  end.  He  wanted  to  smooth  the 
matter  over,  or  at  least  to  soften  the  unfavourable  impression 
against  Giovanni.  He  had  not  the  remotest  idea  how  to  do  it. 
He  was  not  a  very  diplomatic  man. 

“No,  no;  you  misunderstand  me.  lam  not  cold.  I  quite 
appreciate  your  situation.  You  are  very  justly  annoyed." 

“  Of  course  I  am,"  said  Donna  Tullia  impatiently.  She  was 
beginning  to  regret  that  she  had  made  him  get  into  her  carriage. 

“Precisely;  of  course  you  are.  Now,  so  soon  as  Giovanni  is 
quite  recovered,  I  will  send  him  to  explain  his  conduct  to  you 
if  he  can,  or  to - " 

“  Explain  it  ?  How  can  he  explain  it  ?  I  do  not  want  you 
to  send  him,  if  he  will  not  come  of  his  own  accord.  Why 
should  I  ?  " 

“Well,  well,  as  you  please,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  old  Sara- 


138 


SARACltfESCA. 


cinesca,  smiling  to  cover  his  perplexity.  “  I  am  not  a  good 
ambassador;  but  you  know  I  am  a  good  friend,  and  I  really 
want  to  do  something  to  restore  Giovanni  to  your  graces.” 

“  That  will  be  difficult,”  answered  Donna  Tullia,  although 
she  knew  very  well  that  she  would  receive  Giovanni  kindly 
enough  when  she  had  once  had  ?n  opportunity  of  speaking  her 
mind  to  him. 

“Do  not  be  hard-hearted,”  urged  the  Prince.  “Iam  sure 
he  is  very  penitent.” 

“  Then  let  him  say  so.” 

“  That  is  exactly  what  I  ask.” 

“  Is  it  ?  Oh,  very  well.  If  he  chooses  to  call  I  will  receive 
him,  since  you  desire  it.  Where  shall  I  put  you  down  ?  ” 

“  Anywhere,  thank  you.  Here,  if  you  wish — at  the  corner. 
Good-bye.  Do  not  be  too  hard  on  the  boy.” 

“We  shall  see,”  answered  Donna  Tullia,  unwilling  to  show 
too  much  indulgence.  The  old  Prince  bowed,  and  walked 
away  into  the  gloom  of  the  dusky  streets. 

“That  is  over,”  he  muttered  to  himself.  “I  wonder  how 
the  Astrardente  takes  it.”  He  would  have  liked  to  see  her; 
but  he  recognized  that,  as  he  so  very  rarely  called  upon  her,  it 
would  seem  strange  to  choose  such  a  time  for  his  visit.  It. 
would  not  do — it  would  be  hardly  decent,  seeing  that  he  be¬ 
lieved  her  to  be  the  cause  of  the  catastrophe.  His  steps,  how¬ 
ever,  led  him  almost  unconsciously  in  the  direction  of  the  As¬ 
trardente  palace;  he  found  himself  in  front  of  the  arched 
entrance  almost  before  he  knew  where  he  was.  The  temptation 
to  see  Corona  was  more  than  he  could  resist.  He  asked  the 
porter  if  the  Duchessa  was  at  home,  and  on  being  answered  in 
the  affirmative,  he  boldly  entered  and  ascended  the  marble  stair¬ 
case — boldly,  but  with  an  odd  sensation,  like  that  of  a  school¬ 
boy  who  is  getting  himself  into  trouble. 

Corona  had  just  come  home,  and  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in 
her  great  drawing-room,  alone,  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  which 
she  was  not  reading.  She  rarely  remained  in  the  reception- 
rooms;  but  to-day  she  had  rather  capriciously  taken  a  fancy  to 
the  broad  solitude  of  the  place,  and  had  accordingly  installed 
herself  there.  She  was  very  much  surprised  when  the  doors 
were  suddenly  opened  wide  and  the  servant  announced  Prince 
Saracinesca.  For  a  moment  she  thought  it  must  be  Giovanni, 
for  his  father  rarely  entered  her  house,  and  when  the  old  man’s 
stalwart  figure  advanced  towards  her,  she  dropped  her  book  in 
astonishment,  and  rose  from  her  deep  chair  to  meet  him.  She 
was  very  pale,  and  there  were  dark  rings  under  her  eyes  that 
spoke  of  pain  and  want  of  sleep.  She  was  so  utterly  different 
from  Donna  Tullia,  whom  he  had  just  left,  that  the  Prince 
was  almost  awed  by  her  stateliness,  and  felt  more  than  ever  like 


SARACINESCA. 


139 


a  boy  in  a  bad  scrape.  Corona  bowed  rather  coldly,  but  ex¬ 
tended  her  hand,  which  the  old  gentleman  raised  to  his  lips 
respectfully,  in  the  manner  of  the  old  school. 

“  I  trust  you  are  not  exhausted  after  the  ball  ?  ”  he  began, 
not  knowing  what  to  say. 

“Not  in  the  least.  We  did  not  stay  late,”  replied  Corona, 
secretly  wondering  why  he  had  come. 

“  It  was  really  magnificent,”  he  answered.  “  There  has  been 
no  such  ball  for  years.  Very  unfortunate  that  it  should  have 
terminated  in  such  an  unpleasant  way,”  he  added,  making  a 
bold  dash  at  the  subject  of  which  he  wished  to  speak. 

“  Very.  You  did  a  bad  morning’s  work,”  said  the  Duchessa, 
severely.  “  I  wonder  that  you  should  speak  of  it.” 

“  No  one  speaks  of  anything  else,”  returned  the  prince,  apo¬ 
logetically.  “  Besides,  I  do  not  see  what  was  to  be  done.” 

“  You  should  have  stopped  it,”  answered  Corona,  her  dark 
eyes  gleaming  with  righteous  indignation.  “  You  should  have 
prevented  it  at  any  price,  if  not  in  the  name  of  religion,  which 
forbids  it  as  a  crime,  at  least  in  the  name  of  decency— as  being 
Don  Giovanni’s  father.” 

“  You  speak  strong  words,  Duchessa,”  said  the  Prince,  evi¬ 
dently  annoyed  at  her  tone. 

“  If  I  speak  strongly,  it  is  because  I  think  you  acted  shame¬ 
fully  in  permitting  this  disgraceful  butchery.” 

Saracinesca  suddenly  lost  his  temper,  as  he  frequently  did. 

“  Madam,”  he  said,  “  it  is  certainly  not  for  you  to  accuse  me 
of  crime,  lack  of  decency,  and  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  dis¬ 
graceful  butchery,  seeing  who  was  the  probable  cause  of  the 
honourable  encounter  which  you  characterise  in  such  tasteful 
language.” 

“  Honourable  indeed !  ”  said  Corona,  very  scornfully.  “  Let 
that  pass.  Who,  pray,  is  more  to  blame  than  you  ?  Who  is 
the  probable  cause  ?  ” 

“  Need  I  tell  you  ?  ”  asked  the  old  man,  fixing  his  flashing 
eyes  upon  her. 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?  ”  inquired  Corona,  turning  white,  and 
her  voice  trembling  between  her  anger  and  her  emotion. 

“  I  may  be  wrong,”  said  the  Prince,  “  but  I  believe  I  am 
right.  I  believe  the  duel  was  fought  on  your  account.” 

“On  my  account!”  repeated  Corona,  half  rising  from  her 
chair  in  her  indignation.  Then  she  sank  back  again,  and 
added,  very  coldly,  “  If  you  have  come  here  to  insult  me, 
Prince,  I  will  send  for  my  husband.” 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  Duchessa,”  said  old  Saracinesca.  “It 
is  very  far  from  my  intention  to  insult  you.” 

“And  who  has  told  you  this  abominable  lie?”  asked  Corona, 
still  very  angry. 


140 


SARACINESCA. 


“  No  one,  upon  my  word.” 

“  Then  how  dare  you - ” 

“  Because  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  you  are  the  only 
woman  alive  for  whom  my  son  would  engage  in  a  quarrel.” 

“  It  is  impossible,”  cried  Corona.  “  I  will  never  believe  that 
Don  Giovanni  could - ”  She  checked  herself. 

“  Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca  is  a  gentleman,  madam,”  said  the 
old  Prince,  proudly.  “  He  keeps  his  own  counsel.  I  have  come 
by  the  information  without  any  evidence  of  it  from  his  lips.” 

“Then  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  you,”  returned  the  Du- 
chessa.  “  I  must  beg  you  either  to  explain  your  extraordinary 
language,  or  else  to  leave  me.” 

Corona  d’Astrardente  was  a  match  for  any  man  when  she 
was  angry.  But  old  Saracinesca,  though  no  diplomatist,  was  a 
formidable  adversary,  from  his  boldness  and  determination  to 
discover  the  truth  at  any  price. 

“It  is  precisely  because,  at  the  risk  of  offending  you,  I  de¬ 
sired  an  explanation,  that  I  have  intruded  myself  upon  you 
to-day,”  he  answered.  “  AVill  you  permit  me  one  question 
before  I  leave  you  ?” 

“  Provided  it  is  not  an  insulting  one,  I  will  answer  it,”  re¬ 
plied  Corona. 

“  Do  you  know  anything  of  the  circumstances  which  led  to 
this  morning’s  encounter?” 

“  Certainly  not,”  Corona  answered,  hotly.  “  I  assure  you  most 
solemnly,”  she  continued  in  calmer  tones,  “that  I  am  wholly 
ignorant  of  it.  I  suppose  you  have  a  right  to  be  told  that.” 

“  I,  on  my  part,  assure  you,  upon  my  word,  that  I  know  no 
more  than  you  yourself,  excepting  this :  on  some  provocation, 
concerning  which  he  will  not  speak,  my  son  seized  Del  Ferice 
by  the  throat  and  used  strong  words  to  him.  No  one  witnessed 
the  scene.  Del  Ferice  sent  the  challenge.  My  son  could  find 
no  one  to  act  for  him  and  applied  to  me,  as  was  quite  right 
that  he  should.  There  was  no  apology  possible — Giovanni  had 
to  give  the  man  satisfaction.  You  know  as  much  as  I  know 
now.” 

“  That  does  not  help  me  to  understand  why  you  accuse  me 
of  having  caused  the  quarrel,”  said  Corona.  “  What  have  I  to 
do  with  Del  Ferice,  poor  man  ?  ” 

“  This — any  one  can  see  that  you  are  as  indifferent  to  my  son 
as  to  any  other  man.  Every  one  knows  that  the  Duchessa 
d’Astrardente  is  above  suspicion.” 

Corona  raised  her  head  proudly  and  stared  at  Saracinesca. 

“  But,  on  the  other  hand,  every  one  knows  that  my  son  loves 
you  madly — can  you  yourself  deny  it?” 

“  Who  dares  to  say  it  ?  ”  asked  Corona,  her  anger  rising 
afresh. 


SARACINESCA. 


141 


“  Who  sees,  dares.  Can  you  deny  it  ?  ” 

“  You  have  no  right  to  repeat  such  hearsay  tales  to  me,” 
answered  Corona.  But  the  blush  rose  to  her  pale  dark  cheeks, 
and  she  suddenly  dropped  her  eyes. 

“Can  you  deny  it,  Duchessa?”  asked  the  Prince  a  third 
time,  insisting  roughly. 

“  Since  you  are  so  certain,  why  need  you  care  for  my  denial  ?  ” 
inquired  Corona. 

“  Duchessa,  you  must  forgive  me,”  answered  Saracinesca,  his 
tone  suddenly  softening.  “I  am  rough,  probably  rude;  but  I 
love  my  son  dearly.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  him  running  into  a 
dangerous  and  hopeless  passion,  from  which  he  may  issue  only 
to  find  himself  grown  suddenly  old  and  bitter,  disappointed 
and  miserable  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  I  believe  you  to  be  a 
very  good  woman;  I  cannot  look  at  you  and  doubt  the  truth  of 
anything  you  tell  me.  If  he  loves  you,  you  have  influence  over 
him.  If  you  have  influence,  use  it  for  his  good;  use  it  to 
break  down  this  mad  love  of  his,  to  show  him  his  own  folly — 
to  save  him,  in  short,  from  his  fate.  Do  you  understand  me  ? 
Do  I  ask  too  much  ?  ” 

Corona  understood  well  enough — far  too  well.  She  knew  the 
whole  extent  of  Giovanni’s  love  for  her,  and,  what  old  Sara¬ 
cinesca  never  guessed,  the  strength  of  her  own  love  for  him, 
for  the  sake  of  which  she  would  do  all  that  a  woman  could  do. 
There  was  a  long  pause  after  the  old  Prince  had  spoken.  He 
waited  patiently  for  an  answer. 

“  I  understand  you — yes,”  she  said  at  last.  “  If  you  are  right 
in  your  surmises,  I  should  have  some  influence  over  your  son. 
If  I  can  advise  him,  and  he  will  take  my  advice,  I  will  give 
him  the  best  counsel  I  can.  You  have  placed  me  in  a  very 
embarrassing  position,  and  you  have  shown  little  courtesy  in 
the  way  you  have  spoken  to  me ;  but  I  will  try  to  do  as  you 
request  me,  if  the  opportunity  offers,  for  the  sake  of — of  turn¬ 
ing  what  is  very  bad  into  something  which  may  at  last  be  good.” 

“  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Duchessa  !  ”  cried  the  Prince.  “  I 
will  never  forget - ” 

“  Do  not  thank  me,”  said  Corona,  coldly.  “  I  am  not  in  a 
mood  to  appreciate  your  gratitude.  There  is  too  much  blood 
of  those  honest  gentlemen  upon  your  hands.” 

“  Pardon  me,  Duchessa,  I  wish  there  were  on  my  hands  and 
head  the  blood  of  that  gentleman  you  call  honest — the  gentle¬ 
man  who  twice  tried  to  murder  my  son  this  morning,  and  twice 
nearly  succeeded.” 

“What!”  cried  Corona,  in  sudden  terror. 

“  That  fellow  thrust  at  Giovanni  once  to  kill  him  while  they 
were  halting  and  his  sword  was  hanging  lowered  in  his  hand ; 
and  once  again  he  threw  himself  upon  his  knee  and  tried  to 


142 


SARACIKESCA. 


stab  him  in  the  body — which  is  a  dastardly  trick  not  permitted 
in  any  country.  Even  in  duelling,  such  things  are  called 
murder;  and  it  is  their  right  name.” 

Corona  was  very  pale.  Giovanni’s  danger  had  been  suddenly 
brought  before  her  in  a  very  vivid  light,  and  she  was  horror- 
struck  at  the  thought  of  it. 

“Is — is  Don  Giovanni  very  badly  wounded  ?”  she  asked. 

“No,  thank  heaven;  he  will  be  well  in  a  week.  But  either 
one  of  those  attempts  might  have  killed  him ;  and  he  would 
have  died,  I  think — pardon  me,  no  insult  this  time — I  think,  on 
your  account.  Do  you  see  why  for  him  I  dread  this  attachment 
to  you,  which  leads  him  to  risk  his  life  at  every  turn  for  a 
word  about  you  ?  Do  you  see  why  I  implore  you  to  take  the 
matter  into  your  serious  consideration,  and  to  use  your  influence 
to  bring  him  to  his  senses  ?  ” 

“I  see;  but  in  this  question  of  the  duel  you  have  no  proof 
that  I  was  concerned.” 

“No, — no  proof,  perhaps.  I  will  not  weary  you  with  sur¬ 
mises;  but  even  if  it  was  not  for  you  this  time,  you  see  that  it 
might  have  been.” 

“  Perhaps,”  said  Corona,  very  sadly. 

“  I  have  to  thank  you,  even  if  you  will  not  listen  to  me,”  said 
the  Prince,  rising.  “You  have  understood  me.  It  was  all  I 
asked.  Good  night.” 

“  Good  night,”  answered  Corona,  who  did  not  move  from  her 
seat  nor  extend  her  hand  this  time.  She  was  too  much  agitated 
to  think  of  formalities.  Saracinesca  bowed  low  and  left  the 
room. 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  had  come  to  see  the 
Duchessa  not  knowing  what  he  should  say,  and  that  he  had 
blurted  out  the  whole  truth,  and  then  lost  his  temper  in  support 
of  it.  He  was  a  hasty  man,  of  noble  instincts,  but  always  in¬ 
clined  rather  to  cut  a  knot  than  to  unloose  it — to  do  by  force 
what  another  man  would  do  by  skill — angry  at  opposition,  and 
yet  craving  it  by  his  combative  nature. 

His  first  impulse  on  leaving  Corona  was  to  go  to  Giovanni 
and  tell  him  what  he  had  done;  but  he  reflected  as  he  went 
home  that  his  son  was  ill  with  his  wounds,  and  that  it  would  be 
bad  for  him  to  be  angry,  as  of  course  he  would  be  if  he  were 
told  of  his  father’s  doings.  Moreover,  as  old  Saracinesca  thought 
more  seriously  of  the  matter,  he  wisely  concluded  that  it  would 
be  better  not  to  speak  of  the  visit;  and  when  he  entered  the 
room  where  Giovanni  was  lying  on  his  couch  with  a  novel  and 
a  cigarette,  he  had  determined  to  conceal  the  whole  matter. 

“Well,  Giovanni,”  he  said,  “we  are  the  talk  of  the  town,  of 
course.” 

“  It  was  to  be  expected.  Whom  have  you  seen  ?  ” 


SAKACINESCA. 


143 


“In  the  first  place,  I  have  see  Madame  Mayer.  She  is  in  a 
state  of  anger  against  you  which  borders  on  madness — not  be¬ 
cause  you  have  wounded  Del  Ferice,  but  because  you  forgot 
to  dance  with  her.  I  cannot  conceive  how  you  could  be  so 
foolish.” 

“  Nor  I.  It  was  idiotic  in  the  last  degree,”  replied  Giovanni, 
annoyed  that  his  father  should  have  learned  the  story. 

“  You  piust  go  and  see  her  at  once — as  soon  as  you  can  go  out. 
It  is  a  disagreeable  business.” 

“  Of  course.  What  else  did  she  say  ?  ” 

“She  thought  that  Del  Ferice  had  challenged  you  on  her 
account,  because  you  had  not  danced  with  her.” 

“  How  silly !  As  if  I  should  fight  duels  about  her.” 

“  Since  there  was  probably  a  woman  in  the  case,  she  might 
have  been  the  one,”  remarked  his  father. 

“There  was  no  woman  in  the  case,  practically  speaking,” 
said  Giovanni,  shortly. 

“  Oh,  I  supposed  there  was.  However,  I  told  Donna  Tullia 
that  I  advised  her  not  to  think  anything  more  of  the  matter 
until  the  whole  story  came  out.” 

“  When  is  that  likely  to  occur  ?  ”  asked  Giovanni,  laughing. 
“  No  one  alive  knows  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  but  Del  Ferice 
and  I  myself.  He  will  certainly  not  tell  the  world,  as  the 
thing  was  even  more  disgraceful  to  him  than  his  behaviour 
this  morning.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  speak  of  it 
either.” 

“  How  reticent  you  are,  Giovanni !  ”  exclaimed  the  old 
gentleman. 

“Believe  me,  if  I  could  tell  you  the  whole  story  without 
injuring  any  one  but  Del  Ferice,  I  would.” 

“  Then  there  was  really  a  woman  in  the  case  ?  ” 

“  There  w^as  a  woman  outside  the  case,  who  caused  us  to  be 
in  it,”  returned  Giovanni. 

“  Always  your  detestable  riddles,”  cried  the  old  man,  petu¬ 
lantly;  and  presently,  seeing  that  his  son  was  obstinately  silent, 
he  left  the  room  to  dress  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

It  may  be  that  when  Astrardente  spoke  so  tenderly  to  his 
wife  after  the  Frangipani  ball,  he  felt  some  warning  that  told 
him  his  strength  was  failing.  His  heart  was  in  a  dangerous 
condition,  the  family  doctor  had  said,  and  it  was  necessary  that 
he  should  take  care  of  himself.  He  had  been  very  tired  after 
that  long  evening,  and  perhaps  some  sudden  sinking  had  shaken 
his  courage.  He  awoke  from  an  unusually  heavy  sleep  with  a 


144 


SARACINESCA. 


strange  sense  of  astonishment,  as  though  he  had  not  expected 
to  awake  again  in  life.  He  felt  weaker  than  he  had  felt  for  a 
long  time,  and  even  his  accustomed  beverage  of  chocolate  mixed 
with  coffee  failed  to  give  him  the  support  he  needed  in  the 
morning.  He  rose  very  late,  and  his  servant  found  him  more 
than  usually  petulant,  nor  did  the  message  brought  back  from 
Giovanni  seem  to  improve  his  temper.  He  met  his  wife  at  the 
midday  breakfast,  and  was  strangely  silent,  and  in  the  afternoon 
he  shut  himself  up  in  his  own  rooms  and  would  see  nobody. 
But  at  dinner  he  appeared  again,  seemingly  revived,  and  de¬ 
clared  his  intention  of  accompanying  his  wife  to  a  reception 
given  at  the  Austrian  embassy.  He  seemed  so  unlike  his  usual 
self,  that  Corona  did  not  venture  to  speak  of  the  duel  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  morning;  for  she  feared  anything  which 
might  excite  him,  well  knowing  that  excitement  might  prove 
fatal.  She  did  what  she  could  to  dissuade  him  from  going  out; 
but  he  grew  petulant,  and  she  unwillingly  yielded. 

At  the  embassy  he  soon  heard  all  the  details,  for  no  one 
talked  of  anything  else;  but  Astrardente  was  ashamed  of  not 
having  heard  it  all  before,  and  affected  a  cynical  indifference  to 
the  tale  which  the  military  attache  of  the  embassy  repeated  for 
his  benefit.  He  vouchsafed  some  remark  to  the  effect  that 
fighting  duels  was  the  natural  amusement  of  young  gentlemen, 
and  that  if  one  of  them  killed  another  there  was  at  least  one 
fool  the  less  in  society;  after  which  he  looked  about  him  for 
some  young  beauty  to  whom  he  might  reel  off  a  score  of  com¬ 
pliments.  He  knew  all  the  time  that  he  was  making  a  great 
effort,  that  he  felt  unaccountably  ill,  and  that  he  wished  he  had 
taken  his  wife’s  advice  and  stayed  quietly  at  home.  But  at  the 
end  of  the  evening  he  chanced  to  overhear  a  remark  that  Val- 
darno  was  making  to  Casalverde,  who  looked  exceedingly  pale 
and  ill  at  ease. 

“You  had  better  make  your  will,  my  dear  fellow,”  said  Val- 
darno.  “  Spiced  is  a  terrible  man  with  the  foils.” 

Astrardente  turned  quickly  and  looked  at  the  speaker.  But 
both  men  were  suddenly  silent,  and  seemed  absorbed  in  gazing  at 
the  crowd.  It  was  enough,  however.  Astrardente  had  gathered 
that  Casalverde  was  to  fight  Spicca  the  next  day,  and  that  the 
affair  begun  that  morning  had  not  yet  reached  its  termination. 
He  determined  that  he  would  not  again  be  guilty  of  not  know¬ 
ing  what  was  going  on  in  society;  and  with  the  intention  of 
rising  early  on  the  following  morning,  he  found  Corona,  and 
rather  unceremoniously  told  her  it  was  time  to  go  home. 

On  the  next  day  the  Duca  d’ Astrardente  walked  into  the  club 
soon  after  ten  o’clock.  On  ordinary  occasions  that  resort  of  his 
fellows  was  entirely  empty  until  a  much  later  hour;  but  Astrar¬ 
dente  was  not  disappointed  to-day.  Twenty  or  thirty  men  were 


SARACINESCA. 


145 


congregated  in  the  large  hall  which  served  as  a  smoking-room, 
and  all  of  them  were  talking  together  excitedly.  As  the  door 
swung  on  its  hinges  and  the  old  dandy  entered,  a  sudden  silence 
fell  upon  the  assembly.  Astrardente  naturally  judged  that  the 
conversation  had  turned  upon  himself,  and  had  been  checked 
by  his  appearance;  but  he  affected  to  take  no  notice  of  the 
occurrence,  adjusting  his  single  eyeglass  in  his  eye  and  serenely 
surveying  the  men  in  the  room.  He  could  see  that,  although 
they  had  been  talking  loudly,  the  matter  in  hand  was  serious 
enough,  for  there  was  no  trace  of  mirth  on  any  of  the  faces  be¬ 
fore  him.  He  at  once  assumed  an  air  of  gravity,  and  going  up  to 
Valdarno,  who  seemed  to  have  occupied  the  most  prominent  place 
in  the  recent  discussion,  he  put  his  question  in  an  undertone. 

“  I  suppose  Spicca  killed  him  ?  ” 

Valdarno  nodded,  and  looked  grave.  He  was  a  thoughtless 
young  fellow  enough,  but  the  news  of  the  tragedy  had  sobered 
him.  Astrardente  had  anticipated  the  death  of  Casalverde, 
and  was  not  surprised.  But  he  was  not  without  human  feeling, 
and  showed  a  becoming  regret  at  the  sad  end  of  a  man  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  see  so  frequently. 

“  How  was  it  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“A  simple  ‘un,  deux/  tierce  and  carte  at  the  first  bout. 
Spicca  is  as  quick  as  lightning.  Come  away  from  this  crowd,” 
added  Valdarno,  in  a  low  voice,  “  and  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.” 

In  spite  of  his  sorrow  at  his  friend’s  death,  Valdarno  felt  a 
certain  sense  of  importance  at  being  able  to  tell  the  story  to 
Astrardente.  Valdarno  was  vain  in  a  small  way,  though  his 
vanity  was  to  that  of  the  old  Duca  as  the  humble  violet  to  the 
full-blown  cabbage-rose.  Astrardente  enjoyed  a  considerable 
importance  in  society  as  the  husband  of  Corona,  and  was  an 
object  of  especial  interest  to  Valdarno,  who  supported  the  in¬ 
credible  theory  of  Corona  s  devotion  to  the  old  man.  Valdar- 
no’s  stables  were  near  the  club,  and  on  pretence  of  showing  a 
new  horse  to  Astrardente,  he  nodded  to  his  friends,  and  left  the 
room  with  the  aged  dandy.  It  was  a  clear,  bright  winter’s 
morning,  and  the  two  men  strolled  slowly  down  the  Corso 
towards  Valdarno’s  palace. 

“You  know,  of  course,  how  the  affair  began?”  asked  the 
young  man. 

“  The  first  duel  ?  Nobody  knows — certainly  not  I.” 

“Well — perhaps  not,”  returned  Valdarno,  doubtfully.  “At 
all  events,  you  know  that  Spicca  flew  into  a  passion  because 
poor  Casalverde  forgot  to  step  in  after  he  cried  halt;  and  then 
Del  Ferice  ran  Giovanni  through  the  arm.” 

“  That  was  highly  improper — most  reprehensible,”  said  As¬ 
trardente,  putting  up  his  eyeglass  to  look  at  a  pretty  little 
sempstress  who  hurried  past  on  her  way  to  her  work. 


146 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


“  I  suppose  so.  But  Casalverde  certainly  meant  no  harm ;  and 
if  Del  Ferice  had  not  been  so  unlucky  as  to  forget  himself  in 
the  excitement  of  the  moment,  no  one  would  have  thought  any¬ 
thing  of  it.” 

“  Ah  yes,  I  suppose  not,”  murmured  Astrardente,  still  look¬ 
ing  after  the  girl.  When  he  could  see  her  face  no  longer,  he 
turned  sharply  back  to  Valdarno. 

“  This  is  exceedingly  interesting,”  he  said.  "Tell  me  more 
about  it.” 

“  Well,  when  it  was  over,  old  Saracinesca  was  for  killing 
Casalverde  himself.” 

“  The  old  fire-eater  !  He  ought  to  he  ashamed  of  himself.” 

“  However,  Spicca  was  before  him,  and  challenged  Casalverde 
then  and  there.  As  both  the  principals  in  the  first  duel  were 
so  badly  wounded,  it  had  to  be  put  otf  until  this  morning.” 

“  They  went  out,  and — piff,  paff  !  Spicca  ran  him  through,” 
interrupted  Astrardente.  “  What  a  horrible  tragedy  !  ” 

“  Ah  yes ;  and  what  is  worse - ” 

“  What  surprises  me  most,”  interrupted  the  Duca  again,  “  is 
that  in  this  delightfully  peaceful  and  paternally  governed  little 
nest  of  ours,  the  authorities  should  not  have  been  able  to  pre¬ 
vent  either  of  these  duels.  It  is  perfectly  amazing  !  I  cannot 
remember  a  parallel  instance.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  there 
was  not  a  spirro  or  a  gendarme  in  the  neighbourhood  to-day 
nor  yesterday  ?  ” 

“  That  is  not  so  surprising,”  answered  Valdarno,  with  a 
knowing  look.  “  There  would  have  been  few  tears  in  high 
quarters  if  Del  Ferice  had  been  killed  yesterday;  there  will  be 
few  to-day  over  the  death  of  poor  Casalverde.” 

“  Bah  !  ”  ejaculated  Astrardente.  “  If  Antonelli  had  heard 
of  these  affairs  he  would  have  stopped  them  soon  enough.” 

Valdarno  glanced  behind  him,  and,  bending  a  little,  whis¬ 
pered  in  Astrardente’s  ear — 

“  They  were  both  Liberals,  you  must  know.” 

“  Liberals  ?  ”  repeated  the  old  dandy,  with  a  cynical  sneer. 
“  Nonsense,  I  say  !  Liberals  ?  Yes,  in  the  w*ay  you  are  a  Lib¬ 
eral,  and  Donna  Tullia  Mayer,  and  Spicca  himself,  who  has  just 
killed  that  other  Liberal,  Casalverde.  Liberals  indeed  !  Do 
you  flatter  yourself  for  a  moment  that  Antonelli  is  afraid  of 
such  Liberals  as  you  are  ?  Do  you  think  the  life  of  Del  Ferice 
is  of  any  more  importance  to  politics  than  the  life  of  that  dog 
there  ? ” 

It  was  Astrardente’s  habit  to  scoff  mercilessly  at  all  the  petty 
manifestations  of  political  feeling  he  saw  about  him  in  the 
world.  He  represented  a  class  distinct  both  from  the  Valdarno 
set  and  from  the  men  represented  by  the  Saracinesca — a  class 
who  despised  everything  political  as  unworthy  of  the  attention 


SARACINESCA. 


147 


of  gentlemen,  who  took  everything  for  granted,  and  believed 
that  all  was  for  the  best,  provided  that  society. moved  upon 
rollers  and  so  long  as  no  one  meddled  with  old  institutions. 
To  question  the  wisdom  of  the  municipal  regulations  was  to 
attack  the  Government  itself;  to  attack  the  Government  was 
to  cast  a  slight  upon  his  Holiness  the  Pope,  which  was  rank 
heresy,  and  very  vulgar  into  the  bargain.  Astrardente  had 
seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world,  but  his  ideas  of  politics  were 
almost  childishly  simple — whereas  many  people  said  that  his 
principles  in  relation  to  his  fellows  were  fiendishly  cynical.  He 
was  certainly  not  a  very  good  man;  and  if  he  pretended  to  no 
reputation  for  devoutness,  it  was  probable  that  he  recognised 
the  absurdity  of  his  attempting  such  a  pose.  But  politically 
he  believed  in  Cardinal  Antonelli's  ability  to  defy  Europe  with 
or  without  the  aid  of  France,  and  laughed  as  loudly  as  Louis 
Napoleon's  old  idea  of  putting  the  sovereign  Pontiff  at  the  head 
of  an  Italian  federation,  as  he  jeered  at  Cavour's  favourite 
phrase  concerning  a  free  Church  in  a  free  State.  He  had  good 
blood  in  him,  and  the  hereditary  courage  often  found  with  it. 
He  had  a  certain  skill  in  matters  worldly;  but  his  wit  in  things 
political  seemed  to  belong  to  an  earlier  generation,  and  to  be 
incapable  of  receiving  new  impressions. 

But  Valdarno,  who  was  vain  and  set  great  value  on  his  opin¬ 
ions,  was  deeply  offended  at  the  way  Astrardente  spoke  of  him 
and  his  friends.  In  his  eyes  he  was  risking  much  for  what  he 
considered  a  good  object,  and  he  resented  any  contemptuous 
mention  of  Liberal  principles,  whenever  he  dared.  No  one 
cared  much  for  Astrardente,  and  certainly  no  one  feared  him ; 
nevertheless  in  those  times  men  hesitated  to  defend  anything 
which  came  under  the  general  head  of  Liberalism,  when  they 
were  likely  to  be  overheard,  or  when  they  could  not  trust  the 
man  to  whom  they  were  speaking.  If  no  one  feared  Astrar¬ 
dente,  no  one  trusted  him  either.  Valdarno  consequently 
judged  it  best  to  smother  his  annoyance  at  the  old  man's  words, 
and  to  retaliate  by  striking  him  in  a  weak  spot. 

“  If  you  despise  Del  Ferice  as  much  as  you  say,"  he  remarked, 
"I  wonder  that  you  tolerate  him  as  you  do." 

“  I  tolerate  him.  Toleration  is  the  very  word — it  delightfully 
expresses  my  feelings  towards  him.  He  is  a  perfectly  harmless 
creature,  who  affects  immense  depth  of  insight  into  human 
affairs,  and  who  cannot  see  an  inch  before  his  face.  Dear  me  ! 
yes,  I  shall  always  tolerate  Del  Ferice,  poor  fellow  ! " 

“You  may  not  be  called  upon  to  do  so  much  longer,"  re¬ 
plied  Valdarno.  “They  say  he  is  in  a  very  dangerous  condi¬ 
tion  ! " 

“  Ah  ! "  ejaculated  Astrardente,  putting  up  his  eyeglass  at 
his  companion.  “  Ah,  you  don't  say  so  ! " 


148 


SARACINESCA. 


There  was  something  so  insolent  in  the  old  man’s  affected 
stare  that  even  the  foolish  and  good-natured  Valdarno  lost  his 
temper,  being  already  somewhat  irritated. 

“  It  is  a  pity  that  you  should  be  so  indifferent.  It  is  hardly 
becoming.  If  you  had  not  tolerated  him  as  you  have,  he  might 
not  be  lying  there  at  the  point  of  death.” 

Astrardente  stared  harder  than  ever. 

“My  dear  young  friend,”  he  said,  “your  language  is  the 
most  extraordinary  I  ever  heard.  How  in  the  world  can  my 
treatment  of  that  unfortunate  man  have  had  anything  to  do 
with  his  being  wounded  in  a  duel  ?” 

“  My  dear  old  friend,”  replied  Valdarno,  impudently  mim¬ 
icking  the  old  man’s  tone,  “your  simplicity  surpasses  anything 
I  ever  knew.  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  know  that  this 
duel  was  fought  for  your  wife?” 

Astrardente  looked  fixedly  at  Valdarno;  his  eyeglass  dropped 
from  his  eye,  and  he  turned  ashy  pale  beneath  his  paint.  He 
staggered  a  moment,  and  steadied  himself  against  the  door  of  a 
shop.  They  were  just  passing  the  corner  of  the  Piazza  di 
Sciarra,  the  most  crowded  crossing  of  the  Corso. 

“  Valdarno,”  said  the  old  man,  his  cracked  voice  dropping  to 
a  hoarser  and  deeper  tone,  “  you  must  explain  yourself  or  an¬ 
swer  for  this.” 

“What!  Another  duel!”  cried  Valdarno,  in  some  scorn. 
Then,  seeing  that  his  companion  looked  ill,  he  took  him  by  the 
arm  and  led  him  rapidly  through  the  crowd,  across  the  Arco 
dei  Carbognani.  Entering  the  Caffe  Aragno,  a  new  institution 
in  those  days,  both  men  sat  down  at  a  small  marble  table.  The 
old  dandy  was  white  with  emotion;  Valdarno  felt  that  he  was 
enjoying  his  revenge. 

“A  glass  of  cognac,  Duke?”  he  said,  as  the  waiter  came  up. 
Astrardente  nodded,  and  there  was  silence  while  the  man 
brought  the  cordial.  The  Duca  lived  by  an  invariable  rule, 
seeking  to' balance  the  follies  of  his  youth  by  excessive  care  in 
his  old  age;  it  was  long,  indeed,  since  he  had  taken  a  glass  of 
brandy  in  the  morning.  He  swallowed  it  quickly,  and  the 
stimulant  produced  its  effect  immediately;  he  readjusted  his 
eyeglass,  and  faced  Valdarno  sternly. 

“  And  now,”  he  said,  “  that  we  are  at  our  ease,  may  I  in¬ 
quire  what  the  devil  you  mean  by  your  insinuations  about  my 
wife  ?  ” 

“  Oh,”  replied  Valdarno,  affecting  great  indifference,  “  I  only 
say  what  everybody  says.  There  is  no  offence  to  the  Duchessa.” 

“I  should  suppose  not,  indeed.  Go  on.” 

“  Do  you  really  care  to  hear  the  story  ?  ”  asked  the  young  man. 

“  I  intend  to  hear  it,  and  at  once,”  replied  Astrardente. 

“  You  will  not  have  to  employ  force  to  extract  it  from  me,  I 


SARACINESCA. 


149 


can  assure  you,”  said  Yaldarno,  settling  himself  in  his  chair, 
but  avoiding  the  angry  glance  of  the  old  man.  “  Everybody 
has  been  repeating  it  since  the  day  before  yesterday,  when  it 
occurred.  You  were  at  the  Frangipani  ball — you  might  have 
seen  it  all.  In  the  first  place,  you  must  know  that  there  exists 
another  of  those  beings  to  whom  you  extend  your  merciful  tole¬ 
ration — a  certain  Giovanni  Saracinesca — you  may  have  noticed 
him  ?  ” 

“  What  of  him  ?  ”  asked  Astrardente,  fiercely. 

“  Among  other  things,  he  is  the  man  who  wounded  Del  Fe- 
rice,  as  I  daresay  you  have  heard.  Among  other  things  con¬ 
cerning  him,  he  has  done  himself  the  honour  of  falling  despe¬ 
rately,  madly  in  love  with  the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente,  who - ” 

“  What  ?  ”  cried  the  old  man  in  a  cracked  voice,  as  Valdarno 
paused. 

“  Who  does  you  the  honour  of  ignoring  his  existence  on  most 
occasions,  but  who  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  recall  him  to  her 
memory  on  the  night  of  the  Frangipani  ball.  We  were  all  sit¬ 
ting  in  a  circle  round  the  Duchessa’s  chair  that  night,  when 
the  conversation  chanced  to  turn  upon  this  same  Giovanni 
Saracinesca,  a  fire-eating  fellow  with  a  bad  temper.  He  had 
been  away  for  some  days;  indeed  he  was  last  seen  at  the  Apollo 
in  your  box,  when  they  gave  ‘ Norma’——” 

“  I  remember,”  interrupted  Astrardente.  The  mention  of 
that  evening  was  but  a  random  shot.  Valdarno  had  been  in  the 
club-box,  and  had  seen  Giovanni  wThen  he  made  his  visit  to  the 
Astrardente;  he  had  not  seen  him  again  till  the  Frangipani  ball. 

“Well,  as  I  was  saying,  we  spoke  of  Giovanni,  and  every  one 
had  something  to  say  about  his  absence.  The  Duchessa  ex¬ 
pressed  her  curiosity,  and  Del  Ferice,  who  was  with  us,  pro¬ 
posed  calling  him — he  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  you 
see — that  he  might  answer  for  himself.  So  I  went  and  brought 
him  up.  He  was  in  a  very  bad  humour - ” 

“  What  has  all  this  absurd  story  got  to  do  with  the  matter  ?  ” 
asked  the  old  man,  impatiently. 

“  It  is  the  matter  itself.  The  irascible  Giovanni  is  angry  at 
being  questioned,  treats  us  all  like  mud  under  his  feet,  sits 
down  by  the  Duchessa  and  forces  us  to  go  away.  The  Du¬ 
chessa  tells  him  the  story,  with  a  laugh  no  doubt,  and  Gio¬ 
vanni’s  wrath  overflows.  He  goes  in  search  of  Del  Ferice,  and 
nearly  strangles  him.  The  result  of  these  eccentricities  is  the 
first  duel,  leading  to  the  second.” 

Astrardente  was  very  angry,  and  his  thin  gloved  hands 
twitched  nervously  at  the  handle  of  his  stick. 

“ And  this,”  he  said — “this  string  of  trivial  ball-room  inci¬ 
dent,  seems  to  you  a  sufficient  pretext  for  stating  that  the  duel 
was  about  my  wife  ?  ” 


150 


SARACINESCA. 


“  Certainly,”  replied  Vardarno,  coolly.  “  If  Saracinesca  had 
not  been  for  months  openly  devoting  himself  to  the  Duchessa 
— who,  I  assure  you,  takes  no  kind  of  notice  of  him - ” 

“  You  need  not  waste  words - ” 

“  I  do  not,— and  if  Giovanni  had  not  thought  it  worth  while 
to  be  jealous  of  Del  Ferice,  there  would  have  been  no  fighting.” 

“  Have  you  been  telling  your  young  friends  that  my  wife  was 
the  cause  of  all  this  ?  ”  asked  Astrardente,  trembling  with  a 
genuine  rage  which  lent  a  certain  momentary  dignity  to  his 
feeble  frame  and  painted  face. 

“  Why  not  ?  ” 

“  Have  you  or  have  you  not  ?” 

“Certainly — if  you  please,”  returned  Valdarno  insolently, 
enjoying  the  old  man's  fury. 

“  Then  permit  me  to  tell  you  that  you  have  taken  upon 
yourself  an  outrageous  liberty,  that  you  have  lied,  and  that  you 
do  not  deserve  to  be  treated  like  a  gentleman.” 

Astrardente  got  upon  his  feet  and  left  the  cafe  without  fur¬ 
ther  words.  Valdarno  had  indeed  wounded  in  a  weak  spot, 
and  the  wound  was  mortal.  His  blood  was  up,  and  at  that 
moment  he  would  have  faced  Valdarno  sword  in  hand,  and 
might  have  proved  himself  no  mean  adversary,  so  great  is  the 
power  of  anger  to  revive  in  the  most  decrepit  the  energies  of 
youth.  He  believed  in  his  wife  with  a  rare  sincerity,  and  his 
blood  boiled  at  the  idea  of  her  being  rudely  spoken  of  as  the 
cause  of  a  scandalous  quarrel,  however  much  Valdarno  insisted 
upon  it  that  she  was  as  indifferent  to  Giovanni  as  to  Del  Fe¬ 
rice.  The  story  was  a  shallow  invention  upon  the  face  of  it. 
But  though  the  old  man  told  himself  so  again  and  again  as  he 
almost  ran  through  the  narrow  streets  towards  his  house,  there 
was  one  thought  suggested  by  Valdarno  which  rankled  deep. 
It  was  true  that  Giovanni  had  last  been  seen  in  the  Astrardente 
box  at  the  opera;  but  he  had  not  remained  five  minutes  seated 
by  the  Duchessa  before  he  had  suddenly  invented  a  shallow 
excuse  for  leaving;  and  finally,  there  was  no  doubt  that  at  that 
very  moment  Corona  had  seemed  violently  agitated.  Gio¬ 
vanni  had  not  reappeared  till  the  night  of  the  Frangipani  ball, 
and  the  duel  had  taken  place  on  the  very  next  morning.  As¬ 
trardente  could  not  reason — his  mind  was  too  much  disturbed 
by  his  anger  against  Valdarno;  but  a  vague  impression  that 
there  was  something  wrong  in  it  all,  drove  him  homewards  in 
wild  excitement.  He  was  ill,  too,  and  had  he  been  in  a  frame 
of  mind  to  reflect  upon  himself,  he  would  have  noticed  that 
his  heart  was  beating  with  ominous  irregularity.  He  did  not 
even  think  of  taking  a  cab,  but  hurried  along  on  foot,  finding, 
perhaps,  a  momentary  relief  in  violent  exertion.  The  old  blood 
rushed  to  his  face  in  good  earnest,  and  shamed  the  delicately 


SARACINESCA. 


151 


painted  lights  and  shadows  touched  in  by  the  master-hand  of 
Monsieur  Isidore,  the  cosmopolitan  valet. 

Valdarno  remained  seated  in  the  cafe,  rather  disturbed  at 
what  he  had  done.  He  certainly  had  had  no  intention  of 
raising  such  a  storm ;  he  was  a  weak  and  good-natured  fellow, 
whose  vanity  was  easily  wounded,  but  who  was  not  otherwise 
very  sensitive,  and  was  certainly  not  very  intelligent.  Astrar- 
dente  had  laughed  at  him  and  his  friends  in  a  way  which 
touched  him  to  the  quick,  and  with  childish  petulance  he  had 
retaliated  in  the  easiest  way  which  presented  itself.  Indeed 
there  was  more  foundation  for  his  tale  than  Astrardente  would 
allow.  At  least  it  was  true  that  the  story  was  in  the  mouths 
of  all  the  gossips  that  morning,  and  Valdarno  had  only  repeated 
what  he  had  heard.  He  had  meant  to  annoy  the  old  man ;  he 
had  certainly  not  intended  to  make  him  so  furiously  angry. 
As  for  the  deliberate  insult  he  had  received,  it  was  undoubt¬ 
edly  very  shocking  to  be  told  that  one  lied  in  such  very  plain 
terms;  but  on  the  other  hand,  to  demand  satisfaction  of  such 
an  old  wreck  as  Astrardente  would  be  ridiculous  in  the  ex¬ 
treme.  Valdarno  was  incapable  of  very  violent  passion,  and 
was  easily  persuaded  that  he  was  in  the  wrong  when  any  one 
contradicted  him  flatly;  not  that  he  was  altogether  devoid  of  a 
certain  physical  courage  if  hard  pushed,  but  because  he  was 
not  very  strong,  not  very  confident  of  himself,  not  very  com¬ 
bative,  and  not  very  truthful.  When  Astrardente  was  gone,  he 
waited  a  few  minutes,  and  then  sauntered  up  the  Corso  again 
towards  the  club,  debating  in  his  mind  how  he  should  turn  a 
good  story  out  of  his  morning's  adventure  without  making  him¬ 
self  appear  either  foolish  or  pusillanimous.  It  was  also  neces¬ 
sary  so  to  turn  his  narrative  that  in  case  any  one  repeated  it  to 
Giovanni,  the  latter  might  not  propose  to  cut  his  throat,  though 
it  was  not  probable  that  any  one  would  be  bold  enough  to  desire 
a  conversation  with  the  younger  Saracinesca  on  such  a  subject. 

When  he  again  entered  the  smoking-room  of  the  club,  he 
was  greeted  by  a  chorus  of  inquiries  concerning  his  interview 
with  Astrardente. 

“  What  did  he  ask  ?  What  did  he  say  ?  Where  is  he  ? 
What  did  you  tell  him  ?  Did  he  drop  his  eyeglass  ?  Did  he 
blush  through  his  paint  ?” 

Everybody  spoke  together  in  the  same  breath.  Valdarno’s 
vanity  rose  to  the  occasion.  Weak  and  insignificant  by  nature, 
he  particularly  delighted  in  being  the  centre  of  general  inter¬ 
est,  if  even  for  a  moment  only. 

“  He  really  dropped  his  eyeglass/’  he  answered,  with  a  gay 
laugh,  “  and  he  really  changed  colour  in  spite  of  his  paint.” 

“  It  must  have  been  a  terrible  interview,  then,”  remarked 
one  or  two  of  the  loungers. 


152 


SAKACIKESCA. 


“  I  shall  be  happy  to  offer  you  my  services  in  case  you  wish 
to  cut  each  other’s  throats/’  said  a  French  officer  of  the  Papal 
Zouaves  who  stood  by  the  fireplace  rolling  a  cigarette.  Where¬ 
upon  everybody  laughed  loudly. 

“  Thanks,”  answered  Valdarno;  “I  am  expecting  a  challenge 
every  minute.  If  he  proposes  a  powder-puff  and  a  box  of 
rouge  for  the  weapons,  I  accept  without  hesitation.  Well,  it 
wras  very  amusing.  He  wanted  to  know  all  about  it,  and  so  I 
told  him  about  the  scene  in  Casa  Frangipani.  He  did  not  seem 
to  understand  at  all.  He  is  a  very  obtuse  old  gentleman.” 

“  I  hope  you  explained  the  connection  of  events,”  said  some 
one. 

“  Indeed  I  did.  It  was  delightful  to  witness  his  fury.  It 
was  then  that  he  dropped  his  eyeglass  and  turned  as  red  as  a 
boiled  lobster.  He  swore  that  his  wife  was  above  suspicion,  as 
usual.” 

“  That  is  true,”  said  a  young  man  who  had  attempted  to 
make  love  to  Corona  during  the  previous  year. 

“  Of  course  it  is  true,”  echoed  all  the  rest,  with  unanimity 
rare  indeed  where  a  woman’s  reputation  is  concerned. 

“  Yes,”  continued  Valdarno,  “  of  course.  But  he  goes  so  far 
as  to  say  it  is  absurd  that  any  one  should  admire  his  wife,  who 
is  nevertheless  a  most  admirable  woman.  He  stamped,  he 
screamed,  he  turned  red  in  the  face,  and  he  went  off  without 
taking  leave  of  me,  flourishing  his  stick,  and  swearing  eternal 
hatred  and  vengeance  against  the  entire  civilised  society  of 
the  world.  He  was  delightfully  amusing.  Will  anybody  play 
baccarat  ?  I  will  start  a  bank.” 

The  majority  were  for  the  game,  and  in  a  few  minutes  were 
seated  at  a  large  green  table,  drawing  cards  and  betting  with  a 
good  will,  and  interspersing  their  play  with  stray  remarks  on 
the  events  of  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Corona  was  fast  coming  to  a  state  of  mind  in  which  a  kind 
of  passive  expectation — a  sort  of  blind  submission  to  fate — 
was  the  chief  feature.  She  had  shed  tears  when  her  husband 
spoke  of  his  approaching  end,  because  her  gentle  heart  was 
grateful  to  him,  and  by  its  own  sacrifices  had  grown  used  to 
his  presence,  and  because  she  suddenly  felt  that  she  had  com¬ 
prehended  the  depth  of  his  love  for  her,  as  she  had  never 
understood  it  before.  In  the  five  years  of  married  life  she  had 
spent  with  him,  she  had  not  allowed  herself  to  think  of  his 
selfishness,  of  his  small  daily  egotism;  for,  though  it  was  at  no 
great  expense  to  himself,  he  had  been  uniformly  generous  and 


SARACINESCA. 


153 


considerate  to  her.  But  she  had  been  conscious  that  if  she 
should  ever  remove  from  her  conscience  the  pressure  of  a  self- 
imposed  censorship,  so  that  her  judgment  might  speak  boldly, 
the  verdict  of  her  heart  would  not  have  been  so  indulgent  to 
her  husband  as  was  that  formal  opinion  of  him  which  she 
forced  herself  to  hold.  Now,  however,  it  seemed  as  though 
the  best  things  she  had  desired  to  believe  of  him  were  true; 
and  with  the  conviction  that  he  was  not  only  not  selfish,  but 
absolutely  devoted  to  herself,  there  had  come  upon  her  a  fear 
of  desolation,  a  dread  of  being  left  alone — of  finding  herself 
abandoned  by  this  strange  companion,  the  only  person  in  the 
world  with  whom  she  had  the  habit  of  familiarity  and  the 
bond  of  a  common  past.  Astrardente  had  thought,  and  had 
told  her  too,  that  the  knowledge  of  his  impending  death  might 
lighten  her  burden — might  make  the  days  of  self-sacrifice  that 
yet  remained  seem  shorter;  he  had  spoken  kindly  of  her  mar¬ 
rying  again  when  he  should  be  dead,  deeming  perhaps,  in  his 
sudden  burst  of  generosity,  that  she  would  be  capable  of  look¬ 
ing  beyond  the  unhappy  present  to  the  possibilities  of  a  more 
brilliant  future,  or  at  least  that  the  certainty  of  his  consent  to 
such  a  second  union  would  momentarily  please  her.  It  was 
hard  to  say  why  he  had  spoken.  It  had  been  an  impulse  such 
as  the  most  selfish  people  sometimes  yield  to  when  their 
failing  strength  brings  upon  them  suddenly  the  sense  of  their 
inability  to  resist  any  longer  the  course  of  events.  The  vanity 
of  man  is  so  amazing  that  when  he  is  past  arrogating  to  him¬ 
self  the  attention  which  is  necessary  to  him  as  his  daily  bread, 
he  is  capable  of  so  demeaning  his  manhood  as  to  excite  interest 
in  his  weaknesses  rather  than  that  he  should  cease  to  be  the 
object  of  any  interest  whatever.  The  analysis  of  the  feelings 
of  old  and  selfish  persons  is  the  most  difficult  of  all  studies; 
for  in  proportion  as  the  strength  of  the  dominant  passion  or 
passions  is  quenched  in  the  bitter  still  waters  of  the  harbour 
of  superannuation,  the  small  influences  of  life  grow  in  impor¬ 
tance.  As  when,  from  the  breaking  surge  of  an  angry  ocean, 
the  water  is  dashed  high  among  the  re-echoing  rocks,  leaving 
little  pools  of  limpid  clearness  in  the  hollows  of  the  storm- 
beaten  cliffs  ;  and  as  when  the  anger  of  the  tossing  waves  has 
subsided,  the  hot  sun  shines  upon  the  mimic  seas,  and  the  clear 
waters  that  were  so  transparent  grow  thick  and  foul  with  the 
motion  of  a  tiny  and  insignificant  insect-life  undreamed  of 
before  in  such  crystal  purity:  so  also  the  clear  strong  sea  of 
youth  is  left  to  dry  in  the  pools  and  puddles  of  old  age,  and  in 
the  motionless  calm  of  the  still  places  where  the  ocean  of  life 
has  washed  it,  it  is  dried  up  and  consumed  by  myriads  of  tiny 
parasites — lives  within  lives,  passions  within  passions — tiny 
efforts  at  mimic  greatness, — a  restless  little  world,  the  very 


154 


SARACINESCA. 


parody  and  infinitesimal  reproduction  of  the  mighty  flood 
whence  it  came,  wherein  great  monsters  have  their  being,  and 
things  of  unspeakable  beauty  grow  free  in  the  large  depths  of 
an  unfatliomed  ocean. 

To  Corona  d’Astrardente  in  the  freshness  of  her  youth  the 
study  of  her  husband's  strange  littleness  had  grown  to  be  a 
second  nature  from  the  habit  of  her  devotion  to  him.  But  she 
could  not  understand  him;  she  could  not  explain  to  herself  the 
sudden  confession  of  old  age,  the  quiet  anticipation  of  death, 
the  inexplicable  generosity  towards  herself.  She  only  knew 
that  he  must  be  at  heart  a  man  more  kindly  and  of  better  im¬ 
pulse  than  he  had  generally  been  considered,  and  she  resolved 
to  do  her  utmost  to  repay  him,  and  to  soothe  the  misery  of  his 
last  years. 

Since  he  had  told  her  so  plainly,  it  must  be  true.  It  was 
natural,  perhaps — for  he  was  growing  more  feeble  every  day — 
but  it  was  very  sad.  Five  years  ago,  when  she  had  choked 
down  her  loathing  for  the  old  man  to  whom  she  had  sold  herself 
for  her  father’s  sake,  she  would  not  have  believed  that  she 
should  one  day  feel  the  tears  rise  fast  at  the  thought  of  his 
dying  and  leaving  her  free.  He  had  said  it;  she  would  be 
free.  They  say  that  men  who  have  been  long  confined  in  a 
dungeon  become  indifferent,  and  when  turned  out  upon  the 
world  would  at  first  gladly  return  to  their  prison  walls. 
Liberty  is  in  the  first  place  an  instinct,  but  it  will  easily  grow 
to  be  a  habit.  Corona  had  renounced  all  thought  of  freedom 
five  years  ago,  and  in  the  patient  bowing  of  her  noble  nature 
to  the  path  she  had  chosen,  she  had  attained  to  a  state  of 
renunciation  like  that  of  a  man  who  has  buried  himself  for  ever 
in  an  order  of  Trappists,  and  neither  dreams  of  the  freedom  of 
the  outer  world,  nor  desires  to  dream  of  it.  And  she  had 
grown  fond  of  the  aged  dandy  and  his  foolish  ways — ways 
which  seemed  foolish  because  they  were  those  of  youth  grafted 
upon  senility.  She  had  not  known  that  she  was  fond  of  him, 
it  is  true;  but  now  that  he  spoke  of  dying,  she  felt  that  she 
would  weep  his  loss.  He  was  her  only  companion,  her  only 
friend.  In  the  loyal  determination  to  be  faithful  to  him,  she 
had  so  shut  herself  from  all  intimacy  with  the  world  that  she 
had  not  a  friend.  She  kept  women  at  a  distance  from  her,  in¬ 
stinctively  dreading  lest  in  their  careless  talk  some  hint  or 
comment  should  remind  her  that  she  had  married  a  man 
ridiculous  in  their  eyes;  and  with  men  she  could  have  but 
little  intercourse,  for  their  society  was  dangerous.  No  man 
save  Giovanni  Saracinesca  had  for  years  put  himself  in  the 
light  of  a  mere  acquaintance,  always  ready  to  talk  to  her  upon 
general  subjects,  studiously  avoiding  himself  in  all  discussions, 
and  delicately  flattering  her  vanity  by  his  deference  to  her  judg- 


SARACINESCA. 


155 


ment.  The  other  men  had  generally  spoken  of  love  at  the 
second  meeting,  and  declared  themselves  devoted  to  her  for 
life  at  the  end  of  a  week:  she  had  quietly  repulsed  them,  and 
they  had  dropped  back  into  the  position  of  indifferent  ac¬ 
quaintances,  going  in  search  of  other  game,  after  the  manner 
of  young  gentlemen  of  leisure.  Giovanni  alone  had  sternly 
maintained  his  air  of  calmness,  had  never  offended  her  simple 
pride  of  loyalty  to  Astrardente  by  word  or  deed;  so  that, 
although  she  felt  and  dreaded  her  growing  interest  in  him, 
she  had  actually  believed  that  he  was  nothing  in  her  life,  until 
at  last  she  had  been  undeceived  and  awakened  to  the  know¬ 
ledge  of  his  fierce  passion,  and  being  taken  unawares,  had 
nearly  been  carried  off  her  feet  by  the  tempest  his  words 
had  roused  in  her  own  breast.  But  her  strength  had  not 
utterly  deserted  her.  Years  of  supreme  devotion  to  the  right,  ' 
of  honest  and  unwavering  loyalty,  neither  deceiving  her  con¬ 
science  on  the  one  hand  with  the  morbid  food  of  a  fictitious 
religious  exaltation,  nor,  upon  the  other,  sinking  to  a  cynical 
indifference  to  inevitable  misery;  days  of  quiet  and  constant 
effort;  long  hours  of  thoughtful  meditation  upon  the  one 
resolution  of  her  life, — all  this  had  strengthened  the  natural 
force  of  her  character,  so  that,  when  at  last  the  great  trial  had 
come,  she  had  not  yielded,  but  had  conquered  once  and  for 
ever,  in  the  very  moment  of  sorest  temptation.  And  with  her 
there  would  be  no  return  of  the  danger.  Having  found 
strength  to  resist,  she  knew  that  there  would  be  no  more 
weakness;  her  love  for  Giovanni  was  deep  and  sincere,  but 
it  had  become  now  the  chief  cause  of  suffering  in  her  life;  it 
had  utterly  ceased  to  be  the  chief  element  of  joy,  as  it  had  been 
for  a  few  short  days.  It  was  one  thing  more  to  be  borne,  and 
it  outweighed  all  other  cares. 

The  news  of  the  duel  had  given  her  great  distress.  She 
believed  honestly  that  she  was  in  no  way  concerned  in  it,  and 
she  had  bitterly  resented  old  Saracinesca's  imputation.  In  the 
hot  words  that  had  passed  between  them,  she  had  felt  her 
anger  rise  justly  against  the  old  Prince;  but  when  he  appealed 
to  her  on  account  of  his  son,  her  love  for  Giovanni  had  van¬ 
quished  her  wrath  against  the  old  man.  Come  what  might, 
she  would  do  what  was  best  for  him.  If  possible,  she  would - 
induce  him  to  leave  Rome  at  once,  and  thus  free  herself  from 
the  pain  of  constantly  meeting  him.  Perhaps  she  could  make 
him  marry — anything  would  be  better  than  to  allow  things  to  go 
on  in  their  present  course,  to  have  to  face  him  at  every  turn, 
and  to  know  that  at  any  moment  he  might  be  quarrelling  with 
somebody  and  fighting  duels  on  her  account. 

She  went  boldly  into  the  world  that  night,  not  knowing 
whether  she  should  meet  Giovanni  or  not,  but  resolved  upon 


156 


SARACIKESCA. 


her  course  if  he  appeared.  Many  people  looked  curiously  at 
her,  and  smiled  cunningly  as  they  thought  they  detected  traces 
of  care  upon  her  proud  face;  but  though  they  studied  her,  and 
lost  no  opportunity  of  talking  to  her  upon  the  one  topic  which 
absorbed  the  general  conversation,  no  one  had  the  satisfaction  of 
moving  her  even  so  much  as  to  blush  a  little,  or  to  lower  the  gaze  of 
her  eyes  that  looked  them  all  indifferently  through  and  through. 

Giovanni,  however,  did  not  appear,  and  people  told  her  he 
would  not  leave  his  room  for  several  days,  so  that  she  returned 
to  her  home  without  having  accomplished  anything  in  the 
matter.  Her  husband  was  very  silent,  but  looked  at  her  with 
an  expression  of  uncertainty,  as  though  hesitating  to  speak  to 
her  upon  some  subject  that  absorbed  his  interest.  Neither  of 
them  referred  to  the  strange  interview  of  the  previous  night. 
They  went  home  early,  as  has  been  already  recorded,  seeing  it 
was  only  a  great  and  formal  reception  to  which  the  world  went 
that  night;  and  even  the  toughest  old  society  jades  were  weary 
from  the  ball  of  the  day  before,  which  had  not  broken  up  until 
half-past  six  in  the  morning. 

On  the  next  day,  at  about  twelve  o’clock.  Corona  was  sitting 
in  her  boudoir  writing  a  number  of  invitations  which  were  to 
be  distributed  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  door  opened  and  her 
husband  entered  the  room. 

“My  dear,”  he  cried  in  great  excitement,  “it  is  perfectly 
horrible !  Have  you  heard  ?  ” 

“  What  ?”  asked  Corona,  laying  down  her  pen. 

“  Spicca  has  killed  Casalverde — the  man  who  seconded  Del 
Ferice  yesterday, — killed  him  on  the  spot - ” 

Corona  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror. 

“  And  they  say  Del  Ferice  is  dead,  or  just  dying  ” — his 
cracked  voice  rose  at  every  word ;  “  and  they  say,”  he  almost 
screamed,  laying  his  withered  hand  roughly  upon  his  wife’s 
shoulder, — “  they  say  that  the  duel  was  about  you — you,  do  you 
understand  ?” 

“  That  is  not  true,”  said  Corona,  firmly.  “  Calm  yourself— 
I  beseech  you  to  be  calm.  Tell  me  connectedly  what  has  hap¬ 
pened — who  told  you  this  story.” 

“  AVhat  right  has  any  man  to  drag  your  name  into  a  quar¬ 
rel  ?  ”  cried  the  old  man,  hoarsely.  “  Everybody  is  saying  it — 
it  is  outrageous,  abominable - ” 

Corona  quietly  pushed  her  husband  into  a  chair,  and  sat 
down  beside  him. 

“  You  are  excited — you  will  harm  yourself, — remember  your 
health,”  she  said,  endeavouring  to  soothe  him.  “  Tell  me,  in 
the  first  place,  who  told  you  that  it  was  about  me.” 

“  Valdarno  told  me;  he  told  me  that  every  one  was  saying  it 
— that  it  was  the  talk  of  the  town.” 


SARACINESCA. 


157 


“  But  why  ? ”  insisted  Corona.  “  You  allow  yourself  to  be 
furious  for  the  sake  of  a  piece  of  gossip  which  has  no  founda¬ 
tion  whatever.  What  is  the  story  they  tell  ?  ” 

“Some  nonsense  about  Giovanni  Saracinesca’s  going  away 
last  week.  Del  Ferice  proposed  to  call  him  before  you,  and 
Giovanni  was  angry.” 

“  That  is  absurd,”  said  Corona.  “  Don  Giovanni  was  not  the 

least  annoyed.  He  was  with  me  afterwards - ” 

“Always  Giovanni  !  Always  Giovanni  !  Wherever  you  go, 
it  is  Giovanni !  ”  cried  the  old  man,  in  unreasonable  petulance 
— unreasonable  from  his  point  of  view,  reasonable  enough  had 
he  known  the  truth.  But  he  struck  unconsciously  upon  the 
key-note  of  all  Corona’s  troubles,  and  she  turned  pale  to  the 
lips. 

“You  say  it  is  not  true,”  he  began  again.  “How  do  you 
know  ?  How  can  you  tell  what  may  have  been  said  ?  How 
can  you  guess  it  ?  Giovanni  Saracinesca  is  about  you  in  society 
more  than  any  one.  He  has  quarrelled  about  you,  and  two 
men  have  lost  their  lives  in  consequence.  He  is  in  love  with 
you,  I  tell  you.  Can  you  not  see  it  ?  You  must  be  blind  !  ” 
Corona  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  utterly  overcome  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  situation,  unable  to  answer,  her  hands  folded 
tightly  together,  her  pale  lips  compressed.  Angry  at  her  silence, 
old  Astrardente  continued,  his  rage  gradually  getting  the  mas¬ 
tery  of  his  sense,  and  his  passion  working  itself  up  to  the  pitch 
of  madness. 

“Blind — yes — positively  blind  !”  he  cried.  “Do  you  think 
that  I  am  blind  too  ?  Do  you  think  I  will  overlook  all  this  ? 
Do  you  not  see  that  your  reputation  is  injured — that  people 
associate  your  name  with  Ms — that  no  woman  can  be  mentioned 
in  the  same  breath  with  Giovanni  Saracinesca  and  hope  to 
maintain  a  fair  fame  ?  A  fellow  whose  adventures  are  in  every¬ 
body’s  mouth,  whose  doings  are  notorious;  who  has  but  to  look 

at  a  woman  to  destroy  her;  who  is  a  duellist,  a  libertine - ” 

“That  is  not  true,”  interrupted  Corona,  unable  to  listen 
calmly  to  the  abuse  thus  heaped  upon  the  man  she  so  dearly 
loved.  “  You  are  mad - ” 

“  You  defend  him  !  ”  screamed  Astrardente,  leaning  far 
forward  in  his  chair  and  clenching  his  hands.  “You  dare  to 
support  him — you  acknowledge  that  you  care  for  him  !  Does 
he  not  pursue  you  everywhere,  so  that  the  town  rings  with  it  ? 
You  ought  to  long  to  be  rid  of  him,  to  wish  he  were  dead, 
rather  than  allow  his  name  to  be  breathed  with  yours;  and 
instead,  you  defend  him  to  me — you  say  he  is  right,  that  you 
prefer  his  odious  devotion  to  your  good  name,  to  my  good 
name  !  Oh,  it  is  not  to  be  believed  !  If  you  loved  him  your¬ 
self  you  could  not  do  worse  !  ” 


158 


SARAClNESCA. 


“  If  half  yon  say  were  true - ”  said  Corona,  in  terrible 

distress. 

"True?”  cried  Astrardente,  who  would  not  brook  inter¬ 
ruption.  “It  is  all  true — and  more  also.  It  is  true  that  he 
loves  you,  true  that  all  the  world  says  it,  true — by  all  that  is 
holy,  from  your  face  I  would  almost  believe  that  you  do  love 
him  !  Why  do  you  not  deny  it  ?  Miserable  woman  !  ”  he 
screamed,  springing  towards  her  and  seizing  her  roughly  by 
the  arm,  as  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  “  Miserable  woman  ! 
you  have  betrayed  me - ” 

In  the  paroxysm  of  his  rage  the  feeble  old  man  became  almost 
strong;  his  grip  tightened  upon  his  wife’s  wrist,  and  he  dragged 
her  violently  from  her  seat. 

“  Betrayed  !  And  by  you  !  ”  he  cried  again,  shaking  with 
passion.  “You  whom  I  have  loved  !  This  is  your  gratitude, 
your  sanctified  devotion,  your  cunning  pretence  at  patience  ! 
All  to  hide  your  love  for  such  a  man  as  that !  You  hypocrite, 
you - ” 

By  a  sudden  effort  Corona  shook  off  his  grasp,  and  drew 
herself  up  to  her  full  height  in  magnificent  anger. 

“You  shall  hear  me,”  she  said,  in  deep  commanding  tones. 
“  I  have  deserved  much,  but  I  have  not  deserved  this.” 

“  Ha !  ”  he  hissed,  stand  ing  back  from  her  a  step,  “you  can  speak 
now — I  have  touched  you !  You  have  found  words.  It  was  time !  ” 

Corona  was  as  white  as  death,  and  her  black  eyes  shone  like 
coals  of  fire.  Her  words  came  slowly,  every  accent  clear  and 
strong  with  concentrated  passion. 

“  I  have  not  betrayed  you.  I  have  spoken  no  word  of  love  to 
any  man  alive,  and  you  know  that  I  speak  the  truth.  If  any  one 
has  said  to  me  what  should  not  be  said,  I  have  rebuked  him  to 
silence.  You  know,  while  you  accuse  me,  that  I  have  done  my 
best  to  honour  and  love  you;  you  know  well  that  I  would  die 
by  my  own  hand,  your  loyal  and  true  wife,  rather  than  let  my 
lips  utter  one  syllable  of  love  for  any  other  man.” 

Corona  possessed  a  supreme  power  over  her  husband.  She 
was  so  true  a  woman  that  the  truth  blazed  visibly  from  her 
clear  eyes;  and  what  she  said  was  nothing  but  the  truth.  She 
had  doubted  it  herself  for  one  dreadful  moment;  she  knew  it 
now  beyond  all  doubting.  In  a  moment  the  old  man’s  wrath 
broke  and  vanished  before  the  strong  assertion  of  her  perfect 
innocence.  He  turned  pale  under  his  paint,  and  his  limbs 
trembled.  He  made  a  step  forward,  and  fell  upon  his  knees 
before  her,  and  tried  to  take  her  hands. 

“Oh,  Corona,  forgive  me,”  he  moaned — “forgive  me!  I  so 
love  you !  ” 

Suddenly  his  grasp  relaxed  from  her  hands,  and  with  a  groan 
he  fell  forward  against  her  knees. 


SARACItfESCA.  159 

“  God  knows  I  forgive  yon !  "  cried  Corona,  the  tears  starting 
to  her  eyes  in  sudden  pity.  She  bent  down  to  support  him; 
but  as  she  moved,  he  fell  prostrate  upon  his  face  before  her. 
With  a  cry  of  terror  she  kneeled  beside  him;  with  her  strong 
arms  she  turned  his  body  and  raised  his  head  upon  her  knees. 
His  face  was  ghastly  white,  save  where  the  tinges  of  paint  made 
a  hideous  mockery  of  colour  upon  his  livid  skin.  His  parted 
lips  were  faintly  purple,  and  his  hollow  eyes  stared  wide  open 
at  his  wife's  face,  while  the  curled  wig  was  thrust  far  back 
upon  his  bald  and  wrinkled  forehead. 

Corona  supported  his  weight  upon  one  knee,  and  took  his 
nerveless  hand  in  hers.  An  agony  of  terror  seized  her. 

“  Onofrio !  "  she  cried — she  rarely  called  him  by  his  name — 
“  Onofrio !  speak  to  me !  My  husband  !  "  She  clasped  him 
wildly  in  her  arms.  “  0  God,  have  mercy!  " 

Onofrio  d'Astrardente  was  dead.  The  poor  old  dandy,  in  his 
paint  and  his  wig  and  his  padding,  had  died  at  his  wife's  feet, 
protesting  his  love  for  her  to  the  last.  The  long  averted  blow 
had  fallen.  For  years  he  had  guarded  himself  against  sudden 
emotions,  for  he  was  warned  of  the  disease  at  his  heart,  and 
knew  his  danger;  but  his  anger  had  killed  him.  He  might 
have  lived  another  hour  while  his  rage  lasted;  but  the  revul¬ 
sion  of  feeling,  the  sudden  repentance  for  the  violence  he  had 
done  his  wife,  had  sent  the  blood  back  to  its  source  too  quickly, 
and  with  his  last  cry  of  love  upon  his  lips  he  was  dead. 

Corona  had  hardly  ever  seen  death.  She  gently  lowered  the 
dead  man's  weight  till  he  lay  at  full  length  upon  the  floor. 
Then  she  started  to  her  feet,  and  drew  back  against  the  fire¬ 
place,  and  gazed  at  the  body  of  her  husband. 

For  fully  five  minutes  she  stood  motionless,  scarcely  daring 
to  draw  breath,  dazed  and  stupefied  with  horror,  trying  to 
realise  what  had  happened.  There  he  lay,  her  only  friend,  the 
companion  of  her  life  since  she  had  known  life;  the  man  who 
in  that  very  room,  but  two  nights  since,  had  spoken  such  kind 
words  to  her  that  her  tears  had  flowed — the  tears  that  would 
not  flow  now;  the  man  who  but  a  moment  since  was  railing  at 
her  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage — whose  anger  had  melted  at  her  first 
word  of  defence,  who  had  fallen  at  her  feet  to  ask  forgiveness, 
and  to  declare  once  more,  for  the  last  time,  that  he  loved  her! 
Her  friend,  her  companion,  her  husband — had  he  heard  her 
answer,  that  she  forgave  him  freely  ?  He  could  not  be  dead — 
it  was  impossible.  A  moment  ago  he  had  been  speaking  to 
her.  She  went  forward  again  and  kneeled  beside  him. 

“  Onofrio,"  she  said  very  gently,  “  you  are  not  dead — you 
heard  me  ?  " 

She  gazed  down  for  a  moment  at  the  motionless  features. 
Womanly  thoughtful,  she  moved  his  head  a  little,  and  straight- 


160 


SARACItfESCA. 


ened  the  wig  upon  his  poor  forehead.  Then,  in  an  instant,  she 
realised  all,  and  with  a  wild  cry  of  despair  fell  prostrate  upon 
his  body  in  an  agony  of  passionate  weeping.  How  long  she 
lay,  she  knew  not.  A  knock  at  the  door  did  not  reach  her 
ears,  nor  another  and  another,  at  short  intervals;  and  then  some 
one  entered.  It  was  the  butler,  who  had  come  to  announce  the 
mid-day  breakfast.  He  uttered  an  exclamation  and  started 
back,  holding  the  handle  of  the  door  in  his  hand. 

Corona  raised  herself  slowly  to  her  knees,  gazing  down  once 
more  upon  the  dead  man’s  face.  Then  she  lifted  her  stream¬ 
ing  eyes  and  saw  the  servant. 

“  Your  master  is  dead,”  she  said,  solemnly. 

The  man  grew  pale  and  trembled,  hesitated,  and  then  turned 
and  fled  down  the  hall  without,  after  the  manner  of  Italian 
servants,  wdio  fear  death,  and  even  the  sight  of  it,  as  they  fear 
nothing  else  in  the  world. 

Corona  rose  to  her  feet  and  brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 
Then  she  turned  and  rang  the  bell.  No  one  answered  the  sum¬ 
mons  for  some  time.  The  news  had  spread  all  over  the  house 
in  an  instant,  and  everything  was  disorganised.  At  last  a 
woman  came  and  stood  timidly  at  the  door.  She  was  a  lower 
servant,  a  simple,  strong  creature  from  the  mountains.  Seeing 
the  others  terrified  and  paralysed,  it  had  struck  her  common- 
sense  that  her  mistress  was  alone.  Corona  understood. 

“  Help  me  to  carry  him,”  she  said,  quietly;  and  the  peasant 
and  the  noble  lady  stooped  and  lifted  the  dead  duke,  and  bore 
him  to  his  chamber  without  a  word,  and  laid  him  tenderly 
upon  his  bed. 

“Send  for  the  doctor,”  said  Corona;  “  I  will  watch  beside 
him.” 

“  But,  Excellency,  are  you  not  afraid  ?  ”  asked  the  woman. 

Corona’s  lip  curled  a  little. 

“  I  am  not  afraid,”  she  answered.  “  Send  at  once.”  When 
the  woman  was  gone,  she  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  waited. 
Her  tears  were  dry  now,  but  she  could  not  think.  She  waited 
motionless  for  an  hour.  Then  the  old  physician  entered  softly, 
while  a  crowd  of  servants  stood  without,  peering  timidly 
through  the  open  door.  Corona  crossed  the  room  and  quietly 
shut  it.  The  physician  stood  by  the  bedside. 

“  It  is  simple  enough,  Signora  Duchessa,”  he  said,  gently. 
“  He  is  quite  dead.  It  was  only  the  day  before  yesterday  that 
I  warned  him  that  the  heart  disease  was  worse.  Can  you  tell 
me  how  it  happened  ?  ” 

“Yes,  exactly,”  answered  Corona,  in  a  low  voice.  She  was 
calm  enough  now.  “  He  came  into  my  room  two  hours  ago, 
and  suddenly,  in  conversation,  he  became  very  angry.  Then 
his  anger  subsided  in  a  moment,  and  he  fell  at  my  feet.” 


SARACINESCA. 


161 


“It  is  just  as  I  expected/’  answered  the  physician,  quietly. 
“They  always  die  in  this  way.  I  entreat  you  to  be  calm — to 
consider  that  all  men  are  mortal - ” 

“I  am  calm  now/’  interrupted  Corona.  “I  am  alone.  Will 
you  see  that  what  is  necessary  is  done  quickly?  I  will  leave 
you  for  a  moment.  There  are  people  outside.” 

As  she  opened  the  door  the  gaping  crowd  of  servants  slunk 
out  of  her  way.  With  bent  head  she  passed  between  them, 
and  went  out  into  the  great  reception-rooms,  and  sat  down 
alone  in  her  grief. 

It  was  genuine,  of  its  kind.  The  poor  man’s  soul  might  rest 
in  peace,  for  she  felt  the  real  sorrow  at  his  death  which  he  had 
longed  for,  which  he  had  perhaps  scarcely  dared  to  hope  she 
would  feel.  Had  it  not  been  real  in  those  first  moments  some 
thought  would  have  crossed  her  mind — some  faint,  repressed 
satisfaction  at  being  free  at  last— free  to  marry  Giovanni  Sara- 
cinesca.  But  it  was  not  so.  She  did  not  feel  free — she  felt 
alone,  intensely  alone.  She  longed  for  the  familiar  sound  of 
his  querulous  voice — for  the  expression  of  his  thousand  little 
wants  and  interests;  she  remembered  tenderly  his  harmless 
little  vanities.  She  thought  of  his  wig,  and  she  wept.  So  true 
it  is  that  what  is  most  ridiculous  in  life  is  most  sorrowfully 
pathetic  death.  There  was  not  one  of  the  small  things  about 
him  she  did  not  recall  with  a  pang  of  regret.  It  was  all  over 
now.  His  vanity  was  dead  with  him ;  his  tender  love  for  her 
was  dead  too.  It  was  the  only  love  she  had  known,  until  that 
other  love — that  dark  and  stirring  passion — had  been  roused  in 
her.  But  that  did  not  trouble  her  now.  Perhaps  the  uncon¬ 
scious  sense  that  henceforth  she  was  free  to  love  whom  she 
pleased  had  suddenly  made  insignificant  a  feeling  which  had 
before  borne  in  her  mind  the  terrible  name  of  crime.  The 
struggle  for  loyalty  was  no  more,  but  the  memory  of  what  she 
had  borne  for  the  dead  man  made  him  dearer  than  before. 
The  follies  of  his  life  had  been  many,  but  many  of  them  had 
been  for  her,  and  there  was  the  true  ring  in  his  last  words. 
“To  be  young  for  your  sake,  Corona — for  your  sake!”  The 
phrase  echoed  again  and  again  in  her  remembrance,  and  her 
silent  tears  flowed  afresh.  The  follies  of  his  life  had  been 
many,  but  to  her  he  had  been  true.  The  very  violence  of  his 
last  moments,  the  tenderness  of  his  passionate  appeal  for  for¬ 
giveness,  spoke  for  the  honesty  of  his  heart,  even  though  his 
heart  had  never  been  honest  before. 

She  needed  never  to  think  again  of  pleasing  him,  of  helping 
him,  of  foregoing  for  his  sake  any  intimacy  with  the  world 
which  she  might  desire.  But  the  thought  brought  no  relief. 
He  had  become  so  much  a  part  of  her  life  that  she  could  not 
conceive  of  living  without  him,  and  she  would  miss  him  at 


162 


SARACINESCA. 


every  turn.  The  new  existence  before  her  seemed  dismal  and 
empty  beyond  all  expression.  She  wondered  vaguely  what  she 
should  do  with  her  time.  For  one  moment  a  strange  longing 
came  over  her  to  return  to  the  dear  old  convent,  to  lay  aside 
for  ever  her  coronet  and  state,  and  in  a  simple  garb  to  do 
simple  and  goods  things  to  the  honour  of  God. 

She  roused  herself  at  last,  and  went  to  her  own  rooms, 
dragging  her  steps  slowly  as  though  weighed  down  by  a  heavy 
burden.  She  entered  the  room  where  he  had  died,  and  a  cold 
shudder  passed  over  her.  The  afternoon  sun  was  streaming 
through  the  window  upon  the  writing-table  where  yet  lay  the 
unfinished  invitation  she  had  been  writing,  and  upon  the  plants 
and  the  rich  ornaments,  upon  the  heavy  carpet — the  very  spot 
where  he  had  breathed  his  last  word  of  love  and  died  at  her  feet. 

Upon  that  spot  Corona  d’Astrardente  knelt  down  reverently 
and  prayed, — prayed  that  she  might  be  forgiven  for  all  her 
shortcomings  to  the  dear  dead  man;  that  she  might  have 
strength  to  bear  her  sorrow  and  to  honour  his  memory;  above 
all,  that  his  soul  might  rest  in  peace  and  find  forgiveness,  and 
that  he  might  know  that  she  had  been  truly  innocent — she 
prayed  for  that  too,  for  she  had  a  dreadful  doubt.  But  surely 
he  knew  all  now:  how  she  had  striven  to  be  loyal,  and  how 
truly — yes,  how  truly — she  mourned  his  death. 

At  last  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  lingered  still  a  moment,  her 
hands  clasped  as  they  had  been  in  her  prayer.  Glancing  down, 
something  glistened  on  the  carpet.  She  stooped  and  picked  it 
up.  It  was  her  husband’s  seal-ring,  engraven  with  the  ancient 
arms  of  the  Astrardente.  She  looked  long  at  the  jewel,  and 
then  put  it  upon  her  finger. 

“  God  give  me  grace  to  honour  his  memory  as  he  would  have 
me  honour  it,”  she  said,  solemnly. 

Truly,  she  had  deserved  the  love  the  poor  old  dandy  had  so 
deeply  felt  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

That  night  Giovanni  insisted  on  going  out.  His  wounds  no 
longer  pained  him,  he  said ;  there  was  no  danger  whatever,  and 
he  was  tired  of  staying  at  home.  But  he  would  dine  with  his 
father  as  usual.  He  loved  his  father’s  company,  and  when  the 
two  omitted  to  quarrel  over  trifles  they  were  very  congenial. 
To  tell  the  truth,  the  differences  between  them  arose  generally 
from  the  petulant  quickness  of  the  Prince;  for  in  his  son  his 
own  irascible  character  was  joined  with  the  melancholy  gravity 
which  Giovanni  inherited  from  his  mother,  and  in  virtue  of 
which,  being  taciturn,  he  was  sometimes  thought  long-suffering. 

As  usual,  they  sat  opposite  each  other,  and  the  ancient  butler 


SARACINESCA. 


163 


Pasquale  served  them.  As  the  man  deposited  Giovanni’s  sonp 
before  him,  he  spoke.  A  certain  liberty  was  always  granted 
to  Pasquale;  Italian  servants  are  members  of  the  family,  even 
in  princely  houses.  Never  assuming  that  confidence  implies 
familiarity,  they  enjoy  the  one  without  ever  approaching  the 
latter.  Nevertheless  it  was  very  rarely  that  Pasquale  spoke  to 
his  masters  when  they  were  at  table. 

“  I  beg  your  Excellencies’  pardon - ”  he  began,  as  he  put 

down  the  soup-plate. 

“  Well,  Pasquale  ?”  asked  old  Saracinesca,  looking  sharply  at 
the  old  servant  from  under  his  heavy  brows. 

“  Have  your  Excellencies  heard  the  news  ?  ” 

“  What  news  ?  No,”  returned  the  Prince. 

“  The  Duca  d’Astrardente - ” 

“  Well,  what  of  him  ?” 

“  Is  dead.” 

“Dead!”  repeated  Giovanni  in  a  loud  voice,  that  echoed  to 
the  vaulted  roof  of  the  dining-room. 

“It  is  not  true,”  said  old  Saracinesca;  “I  saw  him  in  the 
street  this  morning.” 

“  Nevertheless,  your  Excellency,”  replied  Pasquale,  “  it  is 
quite  true.  The  gates  of  the  palace  were  already  draped  with 
black  before  the  Ave  Maria  this  evening;  and  the  porter,  who 
is  a  nephew  of  mine,  had  crepe  upon  his  hat  and  arm.  He  told 
me  that  the  Duca  fell  down  dead  of  a  stroke  in  the  Signora 
Duchessa’s  room  at  half-past  twelve  to-day.” 

“  Is  that  all  you  could  learn  ?  ”  asked  the  Prince. 

“  Except  that  the  Signora  Duchessa  was  overcome  with 
grief,”  returned  the  servant,  gravely. 

“  I  should  think  so — her  husband  dead  of  an  apoplexy!  It 
is  natural,”  said  the  Prince,  looking  at  Giovanni.  The  latter 
was  silent,  and  tried  to  eat  as  though  nothing  had  happened — 
inwardly  endeavouring  not  to  rejoice  too  madly  at  the  terrible 
catastrophe.  In  his  effort  to  cox  -rol  his  features,  the  blood 
rushed  to  his  forehead,  and  his  hand  trembled  violently.  His 
father  saw  it,  but  made  no  remark. 

“  Poor  Astrardente !  ”  he  said.  “  He  was  not  so  bad  as  people 
thought  him.” 

“  No,”  replied  Giovanni,  with  a  great  effort;  “  he  was  a  very 
good  man.” 

“  I  should  hardly  say  that,”  returned  his  father,  with  a  grim 
&mile  of  amusement.  “  I  do  not  think  that  by  the  greatest 
stretch  of  indulgence  he  could  be  called  good.” 

“  And  why  not  ?”  asked  the  younger  man,  sharply  snatching 
at  any  possible  discussion  in  order  to  conceal  his  embarrass¬ 
ment. 

“  Why  not,  Indeed!  Why,  because  he  had  a  goodly  share  of 


164 


SARACINESCA. 


original  sin,  to  which  he  added  others  of  his  own  originating 
but  having  an  equal  claim  to  originality.” 

“  I  say  1  think  he  was  a  very  good  man,”  repeated  Giovanni, 
maintaining  his  point  with  an  air  of  conviction. 

“  If  that  is  your  conception  of  goodness,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
you  have  not  attained  to  sanctity,”  said  the  old  man,  with  a 
sneer. 

“  It  pleases  you  to  be  witty,”  answered  his  son.  “  Astrar- 
dente  did  not  gamble;  he  had  no  vices  of  late.  He  was  kind 
to  his  wife.” 

“  No  vices — no.  He  did  not  steal  like  a  fraudulent  bank- 
clerk,  nor  try  to  do  murder  like  Del  Ferice.  He  did  not  de¬ 
ceive  his  wife,  nor  starve  her  to  death.  He  had  therefore  no 
vices.  He  was  a  good  man.” 

“  Let  us  leave  poor  Del  Ferice  alone,”  said  Giovanni. 

“  I  suppose  you  will  pity  him  now,”  replied  the  Prince,  sar¬ 
castically.  “  You  will  talk  differently  if  he  dies  and  you  have 
to  leave  the  country  at  a  moments  notice,  like  Spicca  this 
morning.” 

“  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  Del  Ferice  died.  I  should  never 
recover  from  it.  I  am  not  a  professional  duellist  like  Spicca. 
And  yet  Casalverde  deserved  his  death.  I  can  quite  under¬ 
stand  that.  Del  Ferice  might  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment 
have  lunged  at  me  after  the  halt  was  cried,  but  I  cannot  under¬ 
stand  how  Casalverde  could  be  so  infamous  as  not  to  cross  his 
sword  when  he  himself  called.  It  looked  very  much  like  a 
preconcerted  arrangement.  Casalverde  deserved  to  die,  for  the 
safety  of  society.  I  should  think  that  Rome  had  had  enough 
of  duelling  for  a  while.” 

“  Yes;  but  after  all,  Casalverde  did  not  count  for  much.  I 
am  not  sure  I  ever  saw  the  fellow  before  in  my  life.  And  I 
suppose  Del  Ferice  will  recover.  There  was  a  story  this  morn¬ 
ing  that  he  was  dead;  but  I  went  and  inquired  myself,  and 
found  that  he  was  better.  People  are  much  shocked  at  this 
second  duel.  Well,  it  could  not  be  helped.  Poor  old  Astrar- 
dente!  So  we  shall  never  see  his  wig  again  at  every  ball  and 
theatre  and  supper-party!  There  was  a  man  who  enjoyed  his 
life  to  the  very  end !  ” 

“  I  should  not  call  it  enjoyment  to  be  built  up  every  day  by 
one’s  valet,  like  a  card-house,  merely  to  tumble  to  pieces  again 
when  the  pins  are  taken  out,”  said  Giovanni. 

“  You  do  not  seem  so  enthusiastic  in  his  defence  as  you  were 
a  few  minutes  ago,”  said  the  Prince,  with  a  smile. 

Giovanni  was  so  much  disturbed  at  the  surprising  news  that 
he  hardly  knew  what  he  said.  He  made  a  desperate  attempt 
to  be  sensible. 

“  It  appears  to  me  that  moral  goodness  and  personal  appear- 


SARACISTESCA. 


165 


ance  are  two  things,”  lie  said,  oracularly.  The  Prince  burst 
into  a  loud  laugh. 

“  Most  people  would  say  that !  Eat  your  dinner,  Giovanni, 
and  do  not  talk  such  arrant  nonsense.” 

“  Why  is  it  nonsense  ?  Because  you  do  not  agree  with  me  ?  ” 

“  Because  you  are  too  much  excited  to  talk  sensibly,”  said  his 
father.  “  Do  you  think  I  cannot  see  it  ?  ” 

Giovanni  was  silent  for  a  time.  He  was  angry  at  his  father 
for  detecting  the  cause  of  his  vagueness,  but  he  supposed  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  At  last  Pasquale  left  the  room.  Old  Sara- 
cinesca  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

“  And  now,  Giovannino,”  he  said  familiarly,  “  what  have  you 
got  to  say  for  yourself  ?  ” 

“  I  ?  ”  asked  his  son,  in  some  surprise. 

“  You !  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  ” 

“  I  will  stay  at  home,”  said  Giovanni,  shortly. 

“  That  is  not  the  question.  You  are  wise  to  stay  at  home, 
because  you  ought  to  get  yourself  healed  of  that  scratch.  Gio¬ 
vanni,  the  Astrardente  is  now  a  widow.” 

“  Seeing  that  her  husband  is  dead — of  course.  There  is  vast 
ingenuity  in  your  deduction,”  returned  the  younger  man,  eye¬ 
ing  his  father  suspiciously. 

“  Do  not  be  an  idiot,  Giovannino.  I  mean,  that  as  she  is  a 
widow,  I  have  no  objection  to  your  marrying  her.” 

“  Good  God,  sir!  ”  cried  Giovanni,  “  what  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

“  What  I  say.  She  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Home. 
She  is  one  of  the  best  women  I  know.  She  will  have  a  suffi¬ 
cient  jointure.  Marry  her.  You  will  never  be  happy  with  a 
silly  little  girl  just  out  of  a  convent.  You  are  not  that  sort  of 
man.  The  Astrardente  is  not  three-and-twenty,  but  she  has 
had  five  years  of  the  world,  and  she  has  stood  the  test  well.  I 
shall  be  proud  to  call  her  my  daughter.” 

In  his  excitement  Giovanni  sprang  from  his  seat,  and  rushing 
to  his  father’s  side,  threw  his  arms  round  his  neck  and  em¬ 
braced  him.  He  had  never  done  such  a  thing  in  his  life. 
Then  he  remained  standing,  and  grew  suddenly  thoughtful. 

“  It  is  heartless  of  us  to  talk  in  this  way,”  he  said.  “  The 
poor  man  is  not  buried  yet.” 

“ My  dear  boy,”  said  the  old  Prince,  “Astrardente  is  dead. 
He  hated  me,  and  was  beginning  to  hate  you,  I  fancy.  We 
were  neither  of  us  his  friends,  at  any  rate.  We  do  not  rejoice 
at  his  death;  we  merely  regard  it  in  the  light  of  an  event  which 
modifies  our  immediate  future.  He  is  dead,  and  his  wife  is 
free.  So  long  as  he  was  alive,  the  fact  of  your  loving  her  was 
exceedingly  unfortunate:  it  was  injuring  you  and  doing  a 
wrong  to  her.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  the  greatest  good  fortune 
that  can  happen  to  you  both  is  that  you  should  marry  each  other.” 


166 


SARACINESCA. 


“  That  is  true,”  returned  Giovanni.  In  the  suddenness  of 
the  news,  it  had  not  struck  him  that  his  father  would  ever  look 
favourably  upon  the  match,  although  the  immediate  possibility 
of  the  marriage  had  burst  upon  him  as  a  great  light  suddenly 
rising  in  a  thick  darkness.  But  his  nature,  as  strong  as  his 
father’s,  was  a  little  more  delicate,  a  shade  less  rough;  and  even 
in  the  midst  of  his  great  joy,  it  struck  him  as  heartless  to  be 
discussing  the  chances  of  marrying  a  woman  whose  husband 
was  not  yet  buried.  No  such  scruple  disturbed  the  geniality  of 
the  old  Prince.  He  was  an  honest  and  straightforward  man — 
a  man  easily  possessed  by  a  single  idea — and  he  was  capable  of 
profound  affections.  He  had  loved  his  Spanish  wife  strongly 
in  his  own  fashion,  and  she  had  loved  him;  but  there  was  no 
one  left  to  him  now  but  his  son,  whom  he  delighted  in,  and  he 
regarded  the  rest  of  the  world  merely  as  pawns  to  be  moved  into 
position  for  the  honour  and  glory  of  the  Saracinesca.  He 
thought  no  more  of  a  man’s  life  than  of  the  end  of  a  cigar, 
smoked  out  and  fit  to  be  thrown  away.  Astrardente  had  been 
nothing  to  him  but  an  obstacle.  It  had  not" struck  him  that  he 
could  ever  be  removed ;  but  since  it  had  pleased  Providence  to  take 
him  out  of  the  way,  there  was  no  earthly  reason  for  mourning 
his  death.  All  men  must  die — it  was  better  that  death  should 
come  to  those  who  stood  in  the  way  of  their  fellow-creatures. 

“  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  she  will  consent,”  said  Giovanni, 
beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

“  Bah!  ”  ejaculated  his  father.  “  You  are  the  best  match  in 
Italy.  Why  should  any  woman  refuse  you  ?” 

“  I  am  not  so  sure.  She  is  not  like  other  women.  Let  us 
not  talk  of  it  now.  It  will  not  be  possible  to  do  anything  for 
a  year,  I  suppose.  A  year  is  a  long  time.  Meanwhile  I  will 
go  to  that  poor  man’s  funeral.” 

“  Of  course.  So  will  I.” 

And  they  both  went,  and  found  themselves  in  a  vast  crowd 
of  acquaintances.  No  one  had  believed  that  Astrardente  could 
ever  die,  that  the  day  would  ever  come  when  society  should 
know  his  place  no  more;  and  with  one  consent  everybody  sent 
their  carriages  to  the  funeral,  and  went  themselves  a  day  or 
two  later  to  the  great  requiem  Mass  in  the  parish  church. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  great  black  catafalque, 
with  Corona’s  household  of  servants  in  deep  mourning  liveries 
kneeling  behind  it.  Relations  she  had  none,  and  the  dead  man 
was  the  last  of  his  race — she  was  utterly  alone. 

“  She  need  not  have  made  it  so  terribly  impressive,”  said 
Madame  Mayer  to  Yaldarno  when  the  Mass  was  over.  Madame 
Mayer  paused  beside  the  holy-water  basin,  and  dipping  one 
gloved  finger,  she  presented  it  to  Valdarno  with  an  engaging 
smile.  Both  crossed  themselves. 


SARACINESCA. 


167 


“  She  need  not  have  got  it  up  so  terribly  impressively,  after 
all,”  she  repeated. 

“  I  daresay  she  will  miss  him  at  first,”  returned  Valdarno, 
who  was  a  kind-hearted  fellow  enough,  and  was  very  far  from 
realising  how  much  he  had  contributed  to  the  sudden  death  of 
the  old  dandy.  “  She  is  a  strange  woman.  I  believe  she  had 
grown  fond  of  him.” 

“Oh,  I  know  all  that,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  as  they  left  the 
church. 

“Yes,”  answered  her  companion,  with  a  significant  smile,  “  I 
presume  you  do.”  Donna  Tullia  laughed  harshly  as  she  got 
into  her  carriage. 

“You  are  detestable,  Valdarno — you  always  misunderstand 
me.  Are  you  going  to  the  ball  to-night  ?  ” 

“  Of  course.  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  the  cotillon  ?  ” 

“  If  you  are  very  good — if  you  will  go  and  ask  the  news  of 
Del  Ferice.” 

“  I  sent  this  morning.  He  is  quite  out  of  danger,  they  be¬ 
lieve.” 

“  Is  he  ?  Oh,  I  am  very  glad — I  felt  so  very  badly,  you  know. 
Ah,  Don  Giovanni,  are  you  recovered  ?  ”  she  asked  coldly,  as 
Saracinesca  approached  the  other  side  of  the  carriage.  Val¬ 
darno  retired  to  a  distance,  and  pretended  to  be  buttoning  his 
greatcoat;  he  wanted  to  see  what  would  happen. 

“Thank  you,  yes;  I  was  not  much  hurt.  This  is  the  first 
time  I  have  been  out,  and  I  am  glad  to  find  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  you.  Let  me  say  again  how  profoundly  I  regret 
my  forgetfulness  at  the  ball  the  other  night - ” 

Donna  Tullia  was  a  clever  woman,  and  though  she  had  been 
very  angry  at  the  time,  she  was  in  love  with  Giovanni.  She 
therefore  looked  at  him  suddenly  with  a  gentle  smile,  and  just 
for  one  moment  her  fingers  touched  his  hand  as  it  rested  upon 
the  side  of  the  carriage. 

“  Do  you  think  it  was  kind  ?  ”  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

“  It  was  abominable.  I  shall  never  forgive  myself,”  an¬ 
swered  Giovanni. 

“  I  will  forgive  you,”  answered  Donna  Tullia,  softly.  She 
really  loved  him.  It  was  the  best  thing  in  her  nature,  but  it 
was  more  than  balanced  by  the  jealousy  she  had  conceived  for 
the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente. 

“Was  it  on  that  account  that  you  quarrelled  with  poor  Del 
Ferice  ?  ”  she  asked,  after  a  moment’s  pause.  “  I  have  feared 
it - ” 

“Certainly  not,”  answered  Giovanni,  quickly.  “Pray  set 
your  mind  at  rest.  Del  Ferice  or  any  other  man  would  have 
been  quite  justified  in  calling  me  out  for  it — but  it  was  not  for 
that.  It  was  not  on  account  of  you.” 


168 


SARACINESCA. 


It  would  have  been  hard  to  say  whether  Donna  Tullia’s  face 
expressed  more  clearly  her  surprise  or  her  disappointment  at 
the  intelligence.  Perhaps  she  had  both  really  believed  herself 
the  cause  of  the  duel,  and  had  been  flattered  at  the  thought 
that  men  would  fight  for  her. 

“  Oh,  I  am  very  glad — it  is  a  great  relief,”  she  said,  rather 
coldly.  “  Are  you  going  to  the  ball  to-night  ?  ” 

“No;  I  cannot  dance.  My  right  arm  is  bound  up  in  a  sling, 
as  you  see.” 

.“  I  am  sorry  you  are  not  coming.  Good-bye,  then.” 

“Good-bye;  I  am  very  grateful  for  your  forgiveness.” 
Giovanni  bowed  low,  and  Donna  Tullia’s  brilliant  equipage 
dashed  away. 

Giovanni  was  well  satisfied  at  having  made  his  peace  so  easily, 
but  he  nevertheless  apprehended  danger  from  Donna  Tullia. 

The  next  thing  which  interested  Roman  society  was  Astrar- 
dente’s  will,  but  no  one  was  much  surprised  when  the  terms  of 
it  were  known.  As  there  were  no  relations,  everything  was 
left  to  his  wife.  The  palace  in  Rome,  the  town  and  castle  in 
the  Sabines,  the  broad  lands  in  the  low  hill-country  towards 
Ceprano,  and  what  surprised  even  the  family  lawyer,  a  goodly 
sum  in  solid  English  securities, — a  splendid  fortune  in  all, 
according  to  Roman  ideas.  Astrardente  abhorred  the  name  of 
money  in  his  conversation — it  had  been  one  of  his  affectations; 
but  he  had  an  excellent  understanding  of  business,  and  was 
exceedingly  methodical  in  the  management  of  his  affairs.  The 
inheritance,  the  lawyer  thought,  might  be  estimated  at  three 
millions  of  scudi. 

“  Is  all  this  wealth  mine,  then  ?”  asked  Corona,  when  the 
solicitor  had  explained  the  situation. 

“  All,  Signora  Duchessa.  You  are  enormously  rich.” 

Enormously  rich  !  And  alone  in  the  world.  Corona  asked 
herself  if  she  was  the  same  woman,  the  same  Corona  del  Car¬ 
mine  who  five  years  before  had  suffered  in  the  old  convent  the 
humiliation  of  having  no  pocket-money,  whose  wedding-gown 
had  been  provided  from  the  proceeds  of  a  little  sale  of  the  last 
relics  of  her  father’s  once  splendid  collection  of  old  china  and 
pictures.  She  had  never  thought  of  money  since  she  had  been 
married;  her  husband  was  generous,  but  methodical;  she  never 
bought  anything  without  consulting  him,  and  the  bills  all  went 
through  his  hands.  Now  and  then  she  had  rather  timidly 
asked  for  a  small  sum  for  some  charity;  she  had  lacked  nothing 
that  money  could  buy,  but  she  never  remembered  to  have  had 
more  than  a  hundred  francs  in  her  purse.  Astrardente  had 
once  offered  to  give  her  an  allowance,  and  had  seemed  pleased 
that  she  refused  it.  He  liked  to  manage  things  himself,  being 
a  man  of  detail. 


SARACItfESCA. 


169 


And  now  she  was  enormously  rich,  and  alone.  It  was  a 
strange  sensation.  She  felt  it  to  be  so  new  that  she  innocently 
said  so  to  the  lawyer. 

“  What  shall  I  do  with  it  all  ?  ” 

“  Signora  Duchessa,”  returned  the  old  man,  “  with  regard  to 
money  the  question  is,  not  what  to  do  with  it,  but  how  to  do 
without  it.  You  are  very  young,  Signora  Duchessa.” 

“I  shall  be  twenty-three  in  August,”  said  Corona,  simply. 

“  Precisely.  I  would  beg  to  be  allowed  to  observe  that  by 
the  terms  of  the  will,  and  by  the  laws  of  this  country,  you  are 
not  the  dowager-duchess,  but  you  are  in  your  own  right  and 
person  the  sole  and  only  feudal  mistress  and  holder  of  the 
title.” 

“  Am  I  ?  ” 

“Certainly,  with  all  the  privileges  thereto  attached.  It  may 
be — I  beg  pardon  for  being  so  bold  as  to  suggest  it — it  may 
be  that  in  years  to  come,  when  time  has  soothed  your  sorrow 
you  may  wish,  you  may  consent,  to  renew  the  marriage  tie.” 

“  I  doubt  it — but  the  thing  is  possible,”  said  Corona,  quietly. 

“  In  that  case,  and  should  you  prefer  to  contract  a  marriage 
of  inclination,  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  conferring  your  title 
upon  your  husband,  with  any  reservations  you  please.  Your 
children  will  then  inherit  from  you,  and  become  in  their  turn 
Dukes  of  Astrardente.  This  I  conceive  to  have  been  the  pur¬ 
pose  and  spirit  of  the  late  Duke’s  will.  The  estate,  magnificent 
as  it  is,  will  not  be  too  large  for  the  foundation  of  a  new  race. 
If  you  desire  any  distinctive  title,  you  can  call  yourself  Duchessa 
del  Carmine  d’ Astrardente — it  would  sound  very  well,”  re¬ 
marked  the  lawyer,  contemplating  the  beautiful  woman  before 
him.” 

“  It  is  of  little  importance  what  I  call  myself,”  said  Corona. 
“  At  present  I  shall  certainly  make  no  change.  It  is  very  un¬ 
likely  that  I  shall  ever  marry.” 

“  I  trust,  Signora  Duchessa,  that  in  any  case  you  will  always 
command  my  most  humble  services.” 

With  this  protestation  of  fidelity  the  lawyer  left  the  Palazzo 
Astrardente,  and  Corona  remained  in  her  boudoir  in  medita¬ 
tion  of  what  it  would  be  like  to  be  the  feudal  mistress  of  a 
great  title  and  estate.  She  was  very  sad,  but  she  was  growing 
used  to  her  solitude.  Her  liberty  was  strange  to  her,  but  little 
by  little  she  was  beginning  to  enjoy  it.  At  first  she  had  missed 
the  constant  care  of  the  poor  man  who  for  five  years  had  been 
her  companion;  she  had  missed  his  presence  and  the  burden 
of  thinking  for  him  at  every  turn  of  the  day.  But  it  was  not 
for  long.  Her  memory  of  him  was  kind  and  tender,  and  for 
months  after  his  death  the  occasional  sight  of  some  object  asso¬ 
ciated  with  him  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  She  often 


170 


SARACLN'ESCA. 


wished  he  could  walk  into  the  room  in  his  old  way,  and  begin 
talking  of  the  thousand  and  one  bits  of  town  gossip  that  inte¬ 
rested  him.  But  the  first  feeling  of  desolation  soon  passed,  for 
he  had  not  been  more  than  a  companion;  she  could  analyse 
every  memory  she  had  of  him  to  its  source  and  reason.  There 
was  not  in  her  that  passionate  unformulated  yearning  for  him 
that  comes  upon  a  loving  heart  when  its  fellow  is  taken  away, 
and  which  alone  is  a  proof  that  love  has’  been  real  and  true. 
She  soon  grew  accustomed  to  his  absence. 

To  marry  again — every  one  would  say  she  would  be  right — 
to  marry  and  to  be  the  mother  of  children,  of  brave  sons  and 
noble  girls, — ah  yes  !  that  was  a  new  thought,  a  wonderful 
thought,  one  of  many  that  were  wonderful. 

Then,  again,  her  strong  nature  suddenly  rose  in  a  new  sense 
of  strength,  and  she  paced  the  room  slowly  with  a  strange  ex¬ 
pression  of  sternness  upon  her  beautiful  features. 

“  I  am  a  power  in  the  world,”  she  said  to  herself,  almost 
starting  at  the  truth  of  the  thought,  and  yet  taking  delight  in 
it.  “I  am  what  men  call  rich  and  powerful;  I  have  money, 
estates,  castles,  and  palaces;  I  am  young,  I  am  strong.  What 
shall  I  do  with  it  all  ?  ” 

As  she  walked,  she  dreamed  of  raising  some  great  institution 
of  charity  ;  she  knew  not  for  what  precise  object,  but  there 
was  room  enough  for  charity  in  Rome.  The  great  Torlonia 
had  built  churches,  and  hospitals,  and  asylums.  She  would 
do  likewise;  she  would  make  for  herself  an  interest  in  doing 
good,  a  satisfaction  in  the  exercise  of  her  power  to  combat 
evil.  It  would  be  magnificent  to  feel  that  she  had  done  it  her¬ 
self,  alone  and  unaided;  that  she  had  built  the  walls  from  the 
foundation  and  the  corner-stone  to  the  eaves  ;  that  she  had  en¬ 
tered  herself  into  the  study  of  each  detail,  and  herself  peopled 
the  great  institution  with  such  as  needed  most  help  in  the 
world — with  little  children,  perhaps.  She  would  visit  them 
every  day,  and  herself  provide  for  their  wants  and  care  for 
their  sufferings.  She  would  give  the  place  her  husband’s  name, 
and  the  good  she  would  accomplish  with  his  earthly  portion 
might  perhaps  profit  his  soul.  She  would  go  to  Padre  Filippo 
and  ask  his  advice.  He  would  know  what  was  best  to  be  done, 
for  he  knew  more  of  the  misery  in  Rome  than  any  one,  and 
had  a  greater  mind  to  relieve  it.  She  had  seen  him  since  her 
husband’s  death,  but  she  had  not  yet  conceived  this  scheme. 

And  Giovanni — she  thought  of  him  too;  but  the  habit  of 
putting  him  out  of  her  heart  was  strong.  She  dimly  fancied 
that  in  the  far  future  a  day  might  come  when  she  would  be 
justified  in  thinking  of  him  if  she  so  pleased;  but  for  the 
present,  her  loyalty  to  her  dead  husband  seemed  more  than 
ever  a  sacred  duty.  She  would  not  permit  herself  to  think  of 


SaRACINESCA. 


171 


Giovanni,  even  though,  from  a  general  point  of  view,  she  might 
contemplate  the  possibility  of  a  second  marriage.  She  would 
go  to  Padre  Filippo  and  talk  over  everything  with  him;  he 
would  advise  her  well. 

Then  a  wild  longing  seized  her  to  leave  Rome  for  a  while,  to 
breathe  the  air  of  the  country,  to  get  away  from  the  scene  of 
all  her  troubles,  of  all  the  terrible  emotions  that  had  swept 
over  her  life  in  the  last  three  weeks,  to  be  alone  in  the  hills  or 
by  the  sea.  It  seemed  dreadful  to  be  tied  to  her  great  house 
in  the  city,  in  her  mourning,  shut  off  suddenly  from  the  world, 
and  bound  down  by  the  chain  of  conventionality  to  a  fixed 
method  of  existence.  She  would  give  anything  to  go  away. 
Why  not  ?  She  suddenly  realised  what  was  so  hard  to  under¬ 
stand,  that  she  was  free  to  go  where  she  pleased — if  only,  by 
accident,  she  could  chance  to  meet  Giovanni  Saracinesca  before 
she  left.  No — the  thought  was  unworthy.  She  would  leave 
town  at  once — surely  she  could  have  nothing  to  say  to  Gio¬ 
vanni — she  would  leave  to-morrow  morning. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Corona  found  it  impossible  to  leave  town  so  soon  as  she 
had  wished.  She  had  indeed  sent  out  great  cart-loads  of  fur¬ 
niture,  servants,  horses,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  an  estab¬ 
lishment  in  the  country,  and  she  believed  herself  ready  to  move 
at  once,  when  she  received  an  exceedingly  courteous  note  from 
Cardinal  Antonelli  requesting  the  honour  of  being  received  by 
her  the  next  day  at  twelve  o’clock.  It  was  impossible  to  re¬ 
fuse,  and  to  her  great  annoyance  she  was  obliged  to  postpone 
her  departure  another  twenty-four  hours.  She  guessed  that 
the  great  man  was  the  bearer  of  some  message  from  the  Holy 
Father  himself;  and  in  her  present  frame  of  mind,  such  words 
of  comfort  could  not  fail  to  be  acceptable  from  one  whom  she 
reverenced  and  loved,  as  all  who  knew  Pius  IX.  did  sincerely 
revere  and  love  him.  She  did  not  like  the  Cardinal,  it  is  true; 
but  she  did  not  confound  the  ambassador  with  him  who  sent 
the  embassy.  The  Cardinal  was  a  most  courteous  and  accom¬ 
plished  man  of  the  world,  and  Corona  could  not  easily  have 
explained  the  aversion  she  felt  for  him.  It  is  very  likely  that 
if  she  could  have  understood  the  part  he  was  sustaining  in  the 
great  European  struggle  of  those  days,  she  would  have  accorded 
him  at  least  the  admiration  he  deserved  as  a  statesman.  He 
had  his  faults,  and  they  were  faults  little  becoming  a  cardinal 
of  the  Holy  Roman  Church.  But  few  are  willing  to  consider 
that,  though  a  cardinal,  he  was  not  a  priest — that  he  was  prac¬ 
tically  a  layman  who,  by  his  own  unaided  genius,  had  attained 
to  great  power,  and  that  those  faults  which  have  been  charged 


172 


SARACIKESCA. 


against  him  with  such  virulence  would  have  passed,  nay,  actu¬ 
ally  pass,  unnoticed  and  uncensured  in  many  a  great  statesman 
of  those  days  and  of  these.  He  was  a  brave  man,  who  fought 
a  desperate  and  hopeless  fight  to  his  last  breath,  and  who 
fought  almost  alone — a  man  most  bitterly  hated  by  many,  at 
whose  death  many  rejoiced  loudly  and  few  mourned;  and  to 
the  shame  of  many  be  it  said,  that  his  most  obstinate  adversa¬ 
ries,  those  who  unsparingly  heaped  abuse  upon  him  during  his 
lifetime,  and  most  unseemingly  exulted  over  his  end,  were  the 
very  men  among  whom  he  should  have  found  the  most  willing 
supporters  and  the  firmest  friends.  But  in  1865  he  was  feared, 
and  those  who  reckoned  without  him  in  the  game  of  politics 
reckoned  badly. 

Corona  was  a  woman,  and  very  young.  She  had  not  the 
knowledge  or  the  experience  to  understand  his  value,  and  she 
had  taken  a  personal  dislike  to  him  when  she  first  appeared  in 
society.  He  was  too  smooth  for  her;  she  thought  him  false. 
She  preferred  a  rougher  type.  Her  husband,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  a  boundless  admiration  for  the  cardinal-statesman; 
and  perhaps  the  way  in  which  Astrardente  constantly  tried  to 
impress  his  wife  with  a  sense  of  the  great  man's  virtues,  indi¬ 
rectly  contributed  to  increase  her  aversion.  Nevertheless, 
when  he  sent  word  that  he  desired  to  be  received  by  her,  she 
did  not  hesitate  a  moment,  but  expressed  her  willingness  at 
once.  Punctually  as  the  gun  of  Sant  Angelo  roared  out  the 
news  that  the  sun  was  on  the  meridian,  Cardinal  Antonelli 
entered  Corona's  house.  She  received  him  in  the  great  draw¬ 
ing-room.  There  was  an  air  of  solemnity  about  the  meeting. 
The  room  itself,  divested  of  a  thousand  trifles  which  had 
already  been  sent  into  the  country, looked  desolate  and  formal; 
the  heavy  curtains  admitted  but  little  light;  there  was  no  fire 
on  the  hearth ;  Corona  stood  all  in  black — a  very  incarnation 
of  mourning — as  her  visitor  trod  softly  across  the  dark  carpet 
towards  her. 

The  Cardinal's  expressive  face  was  softened  by  a  look  of 
gentle  sympathy,  as  he  came  forward  and  took  her  hand  in 
both  of  his,  and  gazed  for  a  moment  into  her  beautiful  eyes. 

“ I  am  an  ambassador,  Huchessa,"  he  said  softly.  “I  come 
to  tell  you  how  deeply  our  Holy  Father  sympathises  in  your 
great  sorrow." 

Corona  bent  her  head  respectfully,  and  motioned  to  the  Car¬ 
dinal  to  be  seated. 

“  I  beg  that  your  Eminence  will  convey  to  his  Holiness  my 
most  sincere  gratitude  for  this  expression  of  his  paternal  kind¬ 
ness  to  one  so  unhappy." 

“  Indeed  I  will  not  fail  to  deliver  your  message,  Duchessa," 
answered  the  Cardinal,  seating  himself  by  her  side  in  one  of 


SARACINESCA. 


173 


the  great  arm-chairs  which  had  been  placed  together  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  “  His  Holiness  has  promised  to  remember 
you  in  his  august  prayers;  and  I  also,  for  my  own  part,  entreat 
you  to  believe  that  my  poor  sympathy  is  wholly  with  you  in 
your  distress.” 

“  Your  Eminence  is  most  kind,”  replied  Corona,  gravely. 

It  seemed  as  though  there  were  little  more  to  be  said  in  such 
a  case.  There  was  no  friendship  between  the  two,  no  bond  of 
union  or  fellowship :  it  was  simply  a  formal  visit  of  condolence, 
entailed  as  a  necessity  by  Corona’s  high  position.  The  Pope 
had  sent  her  a  gift  at  her  wedding;  he  sent  her  a  message  of 
sympathy  at  her  husband’s  death.  Half-a-dozen  phrases  would 
be  exchanged,  and  the  Cardinal  would  take  his  leave,  accom¬ 
panied  by  a  file  of  the  Duchessa’s  lackeys — and  so  it  would  all 
be  over.  But  the  Cardinal  was  a  statesman,  a  diplomatist,  and 
one  of  the  best  talkers  in  Europe;  moreover,  he  never  allowed 
an  opportunity  of  pursuing  his  ends  to  pass  unimproved. 

“Ah,  Duchessa!”  he  said,  folding  his  hands  upon  his  knee 
and  looking  down,  “  there  is  but  one  Consoler  in  sorrow  such  as 
yours.  It  is  vain  for  us  mortals  to  talk  of  any  such  thing  as 
alleviating  real  mental  suffering.  There  are  consolations — 
many  of  them — for  some  people,  but  they  are  not  for  you.  To 
many  the  accidents  of  wealth,  of  youth,  of  beauty,  seem  to  open 
the  perspective  of  a  brilliant  future  at  the  very  moment  when 
all  the  present  appears  to  be  shrouded  in  darkness;  but  if  you 
will  permit  me,  who  know  you  so  little,  to  say  it  frankly,  I  do 
not  believe  that  any  of  these  things  which  you  possess  in  such 
plentiful  abundance  will  lessen  the  measure  of  your  grief.  It 
is  not  right  that  they  should,  I  suppose.  It  is  not  fitting  that 
noble  minds  should  even  possess  the  faculty  of  forgetting  real 
suffering  in  the  unreal  trifles  of  a  great  worldly  possession, 
which  so  easily  restore  the  weak  to  courage,  and  flatter  the 
vulgar  into  the  forgetfulness  of  honourable  sorrow.  I  am  no 
moraliser,  no  pedantic  philosopher.  The  stoic  may  have 
shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders  in  sullen  indifference  to  fate; 
the  epicurean  may  have  found  such  bodily  ease  in  his  excessive 
refinement  of  moderate  enjoyment  as  to  overlook  the  deepest 
afflictions  in  anticipating  the  animal  pleasure  of  the  next  meal. 
I  cannot  conceive  of  such  men  as  those  philosophising  diners; 
nor  can  I  imagine  by  what  arguments  the  wisest  of  mankind 
could  induce  a  fellow-creature  in  distress  to  forget  his  suffer¬ 
ings.  Sorrow  is  sorrow  still  to  all  finely  organised  natures. 
The  capacity  for  feeling  sorrow  is  one  of  the  highest  tests  of 
nobility — a  nobility  of  nature  not  found  always  in  those  of  high 
blood  and  birth,  but  existing  in  the  people,  wherever  the  people 
are  good.” 

The  Cardinal’s  voice  became  even  more-  gentle  as  he  spoke. 


174 


SARACIl^ESCA. 


He  was  himself  of  very  humble  origin,  and  spoke  feelingly 
Corona  listened,  though  she  only  heard  half  of  what  he  said- 
but  his  soft  tone  soothed  her  almost  unconsciously. 

“  There  is  little  consolation  for  me — I  am  quite  alone,”  she 
said. 

You  are  not  of  those  who  find  relief  in  worldly  greatness,” 
continued  the  Cardinal.  “  But  I  have  seen  women,  young, 
rich,  and  beautiful,  wear  their  mourning  with  wonderful  com¬ 
posure.  Youth  is  so  much,  wealth  is  so  much  more,  beauty  is 
such  a  power  in  the  world — all  three  together  are  resistless. 
Many  a  young  widow  is  not  ashamed  to  think  of  marriage  be¬ 
fore  her  husband  has  been  dead  a  month.  Indeed  they  do  not 
always  make  bad  wives.  A  woman  who  has  been  married 
young  and  is  early  deprived  of  her  husband,  has  great  experi¬ 
ence,  great  knowledge  of  the  world.  Many  feel  that  they  have 
no  right  to  waste  the  goods  given  them  in  a  life  of  solitary 
mourning.  Wealth  is  given  to  be  used,  and  perhaps  many  a 
rich  young  widow  thinks  she  can  use  it  more  wisely  in  the  com¬ 
pany  of  a  husband  young  as  herself.  It  may  be;  I  cannot  tell. 
These  are  days  when  power  of  any  sort  should  be  used,  and 
perhaps  no  one  should  even  for  a  moment  think  of  withdraw¬ 
ing  from  the  scene  where  such  great  battles  are  being  fought. 
But  one  may  choose  wisely  a  way  of  using  power,  or  one  may 
choose  unwisely.  There  is  much  to  be  done.” 

“  H°w  asked  Corona,  catching  at  his  expression  of  an  idea 
which  pursued  her.  “Here  am  I,  rich,  alone,  idle— above  all, 
very  unhappy.  What  can  I  do  ?  I  wish  I  knew,  for  I  would 
try  and  do  it.” 

“  •  I  was  n°t  speaking  ol  yon,  Duchessa,”  answered  the 

statesman.  “You  are  too  noble  a  woman  to  be  easily  consoled. 
And  yet,  though  you  may  not  find  relief  from  your  great  sorrow, 
there  are  many  things  within  your  reach  which  you  might  do, 
and  feel  that  in  your  mourning  you  have  done  honour  to  your 
departed  husband  as  well  as  to  yourself.  You  have  great 
estates  you  can  improve  them,  and  especially  you  can  improve 
the  condition  of  your  peasants,  and  strengthen  their  loyalty  to 
you  and  to  the  State.  You  can  find  many  a  village  on  your 
lands  where  a  school  might  be  established,  an  asylum  built,  a 
road  opened— anything  which  shall  give  employment  to  the 
poor,  and  which-,  when  finished,  shall  benefit  their  condition. 
Especially  about  Astrardente  they  are  very  poor;  I  know  the 
country  well.  In  six  months  you  might  change  many  things; 
and  then  you  might  return  to  Rome  next  winter.  If  it  pleases 
you,  you  can  do  anything  with  society.  You  can  make  your 
house  a  centre  for  a  new  party — the  oldest  of  all  parties  it  is, 
but  it. would  now  be  thought  new  here.  We  have  no  centre. 
There  is  no  salon  in  the  good  old  sense  of  the  word — no  house 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


175 


where  all  that  is  intelligent,  all  that  is  powerful,  all  that  is 
influential,  is  irresistibly  drawn.  To  make  a  centre  of  that 
kind  would  be  a  worthy  object,  it  seems  to  me.  You  would 
surround  yourself  with  men  of  genius;  you  would  bring  those 
together  who  cannot  meet  elsewhere ;  you  would  give  a  vigor¬ 
ous  tone  to  a  society  which  is  fast  falling  to  decay  from  inani¬ 
tion;  you  could  become  a  power,  a  real  power,  not  only  in 
Home,  but  in  Europe;  you  could  make  your  house  famous  as 
the  point  from  which,  in  Rome,  all  that  is  good  and  great 
should  radiate  to  the  very  ends  of  the  earth.  You  could  do  all 
this  in  your  young  widowhood,  and  you  would  not  dishonour 
the  memory  of  him  you  loved  so  dearly.” 

Corona  looked  earnestly  at  the  Cardinal  as  he  enlarged  upon 
the  possibilities  of  her  life.  What  he  said  seemed  true  and  good. 
It  opened  to  her  a  larger  field  than  she  had  dreamed  of  half  an 
hour  ago.  Especially  the  plan  of  working  for  the  improvement 
of  her  estates  and  people  attracted  her.  She  wanted  to  do  some¬ 
thing  at  once — something  good,  and  something  worth  doing. 

“  I  believe  you  are  right,”  she  said.  “  I  shall  die  if  I  am  idle.” 

“  I  know  I  am  right,”  returned  the  Cardinal,  in  a  tone  of 
conviction.  “  Not  that  I  propose  all  this  as  an  unalterable  plan 
for  you.  I  would  not  have  you  think  I  mean  to  lay  down  any 
system,  or  even  to  advise  you  at  all.  I  was  merely  thinking 
aloud.  I  am  too  happy  if  my  thoughts  please  you — if  anything 
I  say  can  even  for  a  moment  relieve  your  mind  from  the  press¬ 
ure  of  this  sudden  grief.  It  is  not  consolation  I  offer  you.  I 
am  not  a  priest,  but  a  man  of  action ;  and  it  is  action  I  propose 
to  you,  not  as  an  anodyne  for  sorrow,  but  simply  because  it  is 
right  that  in  these  days  we  should  all  strive  with  a  good  will. 
Your  peasants  are  many  of  them  in  an  evil  case:  you  can  save 
them  and  make  them  happy,  even  though  you  find  no  happi¬ 
ness  for  yourself.  Our  social  world  here  is  falling  to  pieces, 
going  astray  after  strange  gods,  and  especially  after  Madame 
Slayer  and  her  lares  and  penates,  young  Valdarno  and  Del 
Ferice :  it  is  in  your  power  to  create  a  new  life  here,  or  at  least 
to  contribute  greatly  towards  re-establishing  the  social  balance. 
I  say,  do  this  thing,  if  you  will,  for  it  is  a  good  thing  to  do. 
At  all  events,  while  you  are  building  roads — and  perhaps 
schools — at  Astrardente,  you  can  think  over  the  course  you 
will  afterwards  pursue.  And  now,  my  dear  Duchessa,  I  have 
detained  you  far  too  long.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  wearied  you, 
for  I  have  great  things  at  heart,  and  must  sometimes  speak  of 
them  though  I  speak  feebly.  Count  on  me  always  for  any 
assistance  you  may  require.  Bear  with  me  if  I  weary  you,  for 
I  was  a  good  friend  of  him  we  both  mourn.” 

“  Thank  you — you  have  given  me  good  thoughts,”  said 
Corona,  simply. 


1% 


SARACINESCA. 


So  the  courtly  Cardinal  rose  and  took  his  leave,  and  once 
more  Corona  was  left  alone.  It  was  a  strange  thing  that, 
while  he  disclaimed  all  power  to  comfort  her,  and  denied  that 
consolation  was  possible  in  her  case,  she  had  nevertheless  lis¬ 
tened  to  him  with  interest,  and  now  found  herself  thinking 
seriously  of  what  he  had  said.  He  seemed  to  have  put  her 
thoughts  into  shape,  and  to  have  given  direction  to  that  sense 
of  power  she  had  already  begun  to  feel.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  felt  something  like  sympathy  for  the  Cardinal,  and 
she  lingered  for  some  minutes  alone  in  the  great  reception- 
room,  wondering  whether  she  could  accomplish  any  of  the 
things  he  had  proposed  to  her.  At  all  events,  there  was  nothing 
now  to  hinder  her  departure;  and  she  thought  with  something 
like  pleasure  of  the  rocky  Sabines,  the  solitude  of  the  moun¬ 
tains,  the  simple  faces  of  the  people  about  her  place,  and  of  the 
quiet  life  she  intended  to  lead  there  during  the  next  six  months. 

But  the  Cardinal  went  on  his  way,  rolling  along  through  the 
narrow  streets  in  his  great  coach.  Leaning  far  back  in  his 
cushioned  seat,  he  could  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  people  as 
he  passed,  and  his  quick  eyes  recognised  many,  both  high  and 
low.  But  he  did  not  care  to  show  himself,  for  he  felt  himself 
disliked,  and  deep  in  his  finely  organised  nature  there  lay  a 
sensitiveness  which  was  wounded  by  the  popular  hatred.  It 
hurt  him  to  see  the  lowering  glances  of  the  poor  man,  and  to 
return  the  forced  bow  of  the  rich  man  who  feared  him.  He 
often  longed  to  be  able  to  explain  many  things  to  them  both,  to 
the  rich  and  to  the  poor;  and  then,  knowing  how  impossible  it 
was  that  he  should  be  understood  by  either,  he  sighed  somewhat 
bitterly,  and  hid  himself  still  deeper  in  his  carriage.  Few  men 
in  the  midst  of  the  world  have  stood  so  wholly  alone  as  Cardinal 
Antonelli. 

To-day,  however,  he  had  an  appointment  which  he  anticipated 
with  a  sort  of  interest  quite  new  to  him.  Anastase  Gouache 
was  coming  to  begin  his  portrait,  and  Anastase  was  an  object 
of  curiosity  to  him.  It  would  have  surprised  the  young  French¬ 
man  had  he  guessed  how  carefully  he  was  watched,  for  he  was 
a  modest  fellow,  and  did  not  think  himself  of  very  much  im¬ 
portance.  He  allowed  Donna  Tullia  and  her  friends  to  come  to 
his  studio  whenever  they  pleased,  and  he  listened  to  their  shallow 
talk,  and  joined  occasionally  in  the  conversation,  letting  them 
believe  that  he  sympathised  with  them,  simply  because  his  own 
ideas  were  unsettled.  It  was  a  good  thing  for  him  to  paint  a 
portrait  of  Donna  Tullia,  for  it  made  him  the  fashion,  and  he 
had  small  scruple  in  agreeing  with  her  views  so  long  as  he  had 
no  fixed  convictions  of  his  own.  She  and  her  set  regarded  him 
as  a  harmless  boy,  and  looked  upon  his  little  studio  as  a  con¬ 
venience,  in  payment  whereof  they  pushed  him  into  society, 


SARACINESCA. 


177 


and  spread  abroad  the  rumour  that  he  was  the  rising  artist  of 
the  day.  But  the  great  Cardinal  had  seen  him  more  than  once, 
and  had  conceived  a  liking  for  his  delicate  intellectual  face 
and  unobtrusive  manner.  He  had  watched  him  and  caused 
him  to  be  watched,  and  his  interest  had  increased,  and  finally 
he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  have  a  portrait  of  himself  painted  by 
the  young  fellow.  This  was  the  day  appointed  for  the  first 
sitting;  and  when  the  Cardinal  reached  his  lodgings,  high  up  in 
the  Vatican  pile,  he  found  Anastase  Gouache  waiting  for  him 
in  the  small  ante-chamber. 

The  prime  minister  was  not  luxuriously  lodged.  Four  rooms 
sufficed  him — to  wit,  the  said  ante-chamber,  bare  and  uncarpeted, 
and  furnished  with  three  painted  wooden  box  benches;  a  com¬ 
fortable  study  lined  throughout  with  shelves  and  lockers,  fur¬ 
nished  with  half-a-dozen  large  chairs  and  a  single  writing-table, 
whereon  stood  a  crucifix  and  an  inkstand;  beyond  this  a  bed¬ 
room  and  a  small  dining-room :  that  was  all.  The  drawers  of 
the  lockers  and  bookcases  contained  a  correspondence  which 
would  have  astonished  Europe,  and  a  collection  of  gems  and 
precious  stones  unrivalled  in  the  world;  but  there  was  nothing 
in  the  shape  of  ornament  visible  to  the  eye,  unless  one  were  to 
class  under  that  head  a  fairly  good  bust  of  Pius  IX.,  which  stood 
upon  a  plain  marble  pedestal  in  one  corner.  Gouache  followed 
the  great  man  into  this  study.  He  was  surprised  by  the  simpli¬ 
city  of  the  apartment ;  but  he  felt  in  sympathy  with  it,  and  with 
the  Cardinal  himself;  and  with  the  intuitive  knowledge  of  a 
true  artist,  he  foresaw  that  he  was  to  paint  a  successful  portrait. 

The  Cardinal  busied  himself  with  some  papers  while  the 
painter  silently  made  his  preparations. 

“  If  your  Eminence  is  ready  ?  ”  suggested  Gouache. 

“  At  your  service,  my  friend/’  replied  the  Cardinal,  blandly. 
“  How  shall  I  sit  ?  The  portrait  must  be  taken  in  full  face,  I 
•  kink.” 

“  By  all  means.  Here,  I  think — so;  the  light  is  very  good  at 
this  hour,  but  a  little  later  we  shall  have  the  sun.  If  your 
Eminence  will  look  at  me — a  little  more  to  the  left — I  think 
that  will  do.  I  will  draw  it  in  in  charcoal,  and  your  Eminence 
can  judge.” 

“  Precisely,”  returned  the  Cardinal.  “  You  will  paint  the 
devil  even  blacker  than  he  is.” 

“  The  devil  ?  ”  repeated  Gouache,  raising  his  eyebrows  with  a 
slight  smile.  “  I  was  not  aware - ” 

“  And  yet  you  have  been  in  Rome  four  years !  ” 

“  I  am  very  careful,”  returned  Gouache.  “  I  never  by  any 
chance  hear  any  evil  of  those  whom  I  am  to  paint.” 

“  You  have  very  well-bred  ears,  Monsieur  Gouache.  I  fear 
that  if  I  had  attended  some  of  the  meetings  in  your  studio  while 


178 


SARACINESCA. 


Donna  Tullia  was  having  her  portrait  painted,  I  should  have 
heard  strange  things.  Have  they  all  escaped  you  ?” 

Gouache  was  silent  for  a  moment.  It  did  not  surprise  him 
to  learn  that  the  omniscient  Cardinal  was  fully  acquainted  with 
the  doings  in  his  studio,  but  he  looked  curiously  at  the  great 
man  before  he  answered.  The  Cardinal’s  small  gleaming  eyes 
met  his  with  the  fearlessness  of  superiority. 

“  I  remember  nothing  but  good  of  your  Eminence,”  the 
painter  replied  at  last,  with  a  laugh;  and  applying  himself  to 
his  work,  he  began  to  draw  in  the  outline  of  the  Cardinal’s  head. 
The  words  he  had  just  heard,  implying  as  they  did  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  minutest  details  of  social  life,  would  have 
terrified  Madame  Mayer,  and  would  perhaps  have  driven  Del 
Ferice  out  of  the  Papal  States  in  fear  of  his  life.  Even  the 
good-natured  and  foolish  Valdarno  might  reasonably  have  been 
startled ;  but  Anastase  was  made  of  different  stuff.  His  grand¬ 
father  had  helped  to  storm  the  Bastille,  his  father  had  been 
among  the  men  of  1848;  there  was  revolutionary  blood  in  his 
veins,  and  he  distinguished  between  real  and  imaginary  con¬ 
spiracy  with  the  unerring  certainty  of  instinct,  as  the  blood¬ 
hound  knows  the  track  of  man  from  the  slot  of  meaner  game. 
He  laughed  at  Donna  Tullia,  he  distrusted  Del  Eerice,  and  to 
some  extent  he  understood  the  Cardinal.  And  the  statesman 
understood  him,  too,  and  was  interested  by  him. 

“  You  may  as  well  forget  their  chatter.  It  does  me  no  harm, 
and  it  amuses  them.  It  does  not  seem  to  surprise  you  that  I 
should  know  all  about  it,  however.  You  have  good  nerves. 
Monsieur  Gouache.” 

“  Of  course  your  Eminence  can  send  me  out  of  Rome  to¬ 
morrow,  if  you  please,”  answered  Gouache,  with  perfect  uncon¬ 
cern.  “  But  the  portrait  will  not  be  finished  so  soon.” 

“  No — that  would  be  a  pity.  You  shall  stay.  But  the  others 
— what  would  you  advise  me  to  do  with  them  ?  ”  asked  the  Car¬ 
dinal,  his  bright  eyes  twinkling  with  amusement. 

“  If  by  the  others  your  Eminence  means  my  friends,”  replied 
Gouache,  quietly,  “  I  can  assure  you  that  none  of  them  will  ever 
cause  you  the  slightest  inconvenience.” 

“  I  believe  you  are  right — their  ability  to  annoy  me  is  con¬ 
siderably  inferior  to  their  inclination.  Is  it  not  so  ?  ” 

“  If  your  Eminence  will  allow  me,”  said  Gouache,  rising 
suddenly  and  laying  down  his  charcoal  pencil,  “  I  will  pin  this 
curtain  across  the  window.  The  sun  is  beginning  to  come  in.” 

He  had  no  intention  of  answering  any  questions.  If  the 
Cardinal  knew  of  the  meetings  in  the  Via  San  Basilio,  that  was 
not  Gouache’s  fault;  Gouache  would  certainly  not  give  any 
further  information.  The  statesman  had  expected  as  much, 
and  was  not  at  all  surprised  at  the  young  man’s  silence. 


SARACINESCA. 


179 


“  One  of  those  young  gentlemen  seems  to  have  met  his  match, 
at  all  events,”  he  remarked,  presently.  “  I  am  sorry  it  should 
have  come  about  in  that  way.” 

“  Your  Eminence  might  easily  have  prevented  the  duel.” 

“  I  knew  nothing  about  it,”  answered  the  Cardinal,  glancing 
keenly  at  Anastase. 

“  Nor  I,”  said  the  artist,  simply. 

“You  see  my  information  is  not  always  so  good  as  people 
imagine,  my  friend.” 

“  It  is  a  pity,”  remarked  Gouache.  “  It  would  have  been 
better  had  poor  Del  Eerice  been  killed  outright.  The  matter 
would  have  terminated  there.” 

“  Whereas - ” 

“  Whereas  Del  Ferice  will  naturally  seek  an  occasion  for  re¬ 
venge.”  * 

“  You  speak  as  though  you  were  a  friend  of  Don  Giovannis, ” 
said  the  Cardinal. 

“  No;  I  have  a  very  slight  acquaintance  with  him.  I  admire 
him,  he  has  such  a  fine  head.  I  should  be  sorry  if  anything 
happened  to  him.” 

“  Do  you  think  Del  Ferice  is  capable  of  murdering  him  ?  ” 

“  Oh  no  !  He  might  annoy  him  a  great  deal.” 

“I  think  not,”  answered  the  Cardinal,  thoughtfully.  “Del 
Ferice  was  afraid  that  Don  Giovanni  would  marry  Donna 
Tullia  and  spoil  his  own  projects.  But  Giovanni  will  not  think 
of  that  again.” 

“No;  I  suppose  Don  Giovanni  will  marry  the  Duchessa 
d’Astrardente.” 

“  Of  course,”  replied  the  Cardinal.  For  some  minutes  there 
was  silence.  Gouache,  while  busy  with  his  pencil,  was  wonder¬ 
ing  at  the  interest  the  great  man  took  in  such  details  of  the 
Homan  social  life.  The  Cardinal  was  thinking  of  Corona, 
whom  he  had  seen  but  half  an  hour  ago,  and  was  revolving  in 
his  mind  the  advantages  that  might  be  got  by  allying  her  to 
Giovanni.  He  had  in  view  for  her  a  certain  Serene  Highness 
whom  he  wished  to  conciliate,  and  whose  circumstances  were 
not  so  splendid  as  to  make  Coronals  fortune  seem  insignificant 
to  him.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Cardinal  had  no  Serene 
Highness  ready  for  Giovanni,  and  feared  lest  he  should  after 
all  marry  Donna  Tullia,  and  get  into  the  opposite  camp. 

“You  are  from  Paris,  Monsieur  Gouache,  I  believe,”  said  the 
Cardinal  at  last. 

“  Parisian  of  the  Parisians,  your  Eminence.” 

“  How  can  you  bear  to  live  in  exile  so  long?  You  have  not 
been  to  your  home  these  four  years,  I  think.” 

“  I  would  rather  live  in  Home  for  the  present.  I  will  go  to 
Paris  some  day.  It  will  always  be  a  pleasant  recollection  to 


180 


SARACINESCA. 


have  seen  Rome  in  these  days.  My  friends  write  me  that  Paris 
is  gay,  but  not  pleasant.” 

“  You  think  there  will  soon  be  nothing  of  this  time  left  but 
the  recollection  of  it  ?”  suggested  the  Cardinal. 

“  I  do  not  know  what  to  think.  The  times  seem  unsettled, 
and  so  are  my  ideas.  I  was  told  that  your  Eminence  would 
help  me  to  decide  what  to  believe.”  Gouache  smiled  pleasantly, 
and  looked  up. 

“  And  who  told  you  that  ?  ” 

“Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca.” 

“  But  I  must  have  some  clue  to  what  your  ideas  are,”  said  the 
Cardinal.  “  When  did  Don  Giovanni  say  that  ?  ” 

“At  Prince  Frangipanis.  He  had  been  talking  with  your 
Eminence — perhaps  he  had  come  to  some  conclusion  in  conse¬ 
quence,”  suggested  Gouache. 

“  Perhaps  so,”  answered  the  great  man,  with  a  look  of  con¬ 
siderable  satisfaction.  “  At  all  events  I  am  flattered  by  the 
opinion  he  gave  you  of  me.  Perhaps  I  may  help  you  to  decide. 
What  are  your  opinions  ?  or  rather,  what  would  you  like  your 
opinions  to  be  ?  ” 

“  I  am  an  ardent  republican,”  said  Gouache,  boldly.  It 
needed  no  ordinary  courage  to  make  such  a  statement  to  the 
incarnate  chief  of  reactionary  politics  in  those  days — within 
the  walls  of  the  Vatican,  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  private 
apartments  of  the  Holy  Father.  But  Cardinal  Antonelli 
smiled  blandly,  and  seemed  not  in  the  least  surprised  nor 
olfended. 

“  Republicanism  is  an  exceedingly  vague  term,  Monsieur 
Gouache,”  he  said.  “  But  with  what  other  opinions  do  you 
wish  to  reconcile  your  republicanism  ?  ” 

“  With  those  held  by  the  Church.  I  am  a  good  Catholic,  and 
I  desire  to  remain  one — indeed  I  cannot  help  remaining  one.” 

“  Christianity  is  not  vague,  at  all  events,”  answered  the  Car¬ 
dinal,  who,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  somewhat  astonished  at  the 
artist’s  juxtaposition  of  two  such  principles.  “In  the  first 
place,  allow  me  to  observe,  my  friend,  that  Christianity  is  the 
purest  form  of  a  republic  which  the  world  has  ever  seen,  and 
that  it  therefore  only  depends  upon  your  good  sense  to  recon¬ 
cile  in  your  own  mind  two  ideas  which  from  the  first  have  been 
indissolubly  bound  together.” 

It  was  Gouache’s  turn  to  be  startled  at  the  Cardinal’s  confi¬ 
dence. 

“  I  am  afraid  I  must  ask  your  Eminence  for  some  further  ex¬ 
planation,”  he  said.  “  I  had  no  idea  that  Christianity  and  re¬ 
publicanism  were  the  same  thing.” 

“Republicanism,”  returned  the  statesman,  “is  a  vague  term, 
invented  in  an  abortive  attempt  to  define  by  one  word  the  mass 


SARACKSTESCA. 


181 


of  inextricable  disorder  arising  in  our  times  from  the  fusion  of 
socialistic  ideas  with  ideas  purely  republican.  If  you  mean  to 
speak  of  this  kind  of  thing,  you  must  define  precisely  your  posi¬ 
tion  in  regard  to  socialism,  and  in  regard  to  the  pure  theory  of 
a  commonwealth.  If  you  mean  to  speak  of  a  real  republic  in 
any  known  form,  such  as  the  ancient  Roman,  the  Dutch,  or  the 
American,  I  understand  you  without  further  explanation.” 

“I  certainly  mean  to  speak  of  the  pure  republic.  I  believe 
that  under  a  pure  republic  the  partition  of  wealth  would  take 
care  of  itself.” 

“Very  good,  my  friend.  Now,  with  regard  to  the  early 
Christians,  should  you  say  that  their  communities  were  mo¬ 
narchic,  or  aristocratic,  or  oligarchic  ?  ” 

“  None  of  those  three,  I  should  think,”  said  Gouache. 

“  There  are  only  two  systems  left,  then — democracy  and  hier¬ 
archy.  You  will  probably  say  that  the  government  of  the  early 
Christians  was  of  the  latter  kind — that  they  were  governed  by 
priests,  in  fact.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
both  those  who  governed,  and  those  who  were  governed  by 
them,  had  all  things  in  common,  regarded  no  man  as  naturally 
superior  to  another,  and  preached  a  fraternity  and  equality  at 
least  as  sincere  as  those  inculcated  by  the  first  French  Repub¬ 
lic.  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  avoid  calling  such  community  a 
republic,  seeing  that  there  was  an  equal  partition  of  wealth; 
and  defining  it  as  a  democratic  one,  seeing  that  they  all  called 
each  other  brethren.” 

“  But  the  hierarchy — what  became  of  it  ?”  inquired  Gouache. 

“  The  hierarchy  existed  within  the  democracy,  by  common 
consent  and  for  the  public  good,  and  formed  a  second  demo¬ 
cracy  of  smaller  extent  but  greater  power.  Any  man  might  be¬ 
come  a  priest,  any  priest  might  become  a  bishop,  any  bishop 
might  become  pope,  as  surely  as  any  born  citizen  of  Rome  could 
become  consul,  or  any  native  of  New  York  may  be  elected 
President  of  the  United  States.  Now  in  theory  this  was  beau¬ 
tiful,  and  in  practice  the  democratic  spirit  of  the  hierarchy,  the 
smaller  republic,  has  survived  in  undiminished  vigour  to  the 
present  day.  In  the  original  Christian  theory  the  whole  world 
should  now  be  one  vast  republic,  in  which  all  Christians  should 
call  each  other  brothers,  and  support  each  other  in  worldly  as 
well  as  spiritual  matters.  Within  this  should  exist  the  smaller 
republic  of  the  hierarchy,  by  common  consent, — an  elective 
body,  recruiting  its  numbers  from  the  larger,  as  it  does  now; 
choosing  its  head,  the  sovereign  Pontiff,  as  it  does  now,  to  be 
the  head  of  both  Church  and  State;  eminently  fitted  for  that 
position,  for  the  very  simple  reason  that  in  a  community  or¬ 
ganised  and  maintained  upon  such  principles,  in  which,  by 
virtue  of  the  real  and  universal  love  of  religion,  the  best  men 


182 


SAKACINESCA. 


would  find  their  way  into  the  Church,  and  would  ultimately 
find  their  way  to  the  papal  throne.” 

“Your  Eminence  states  the  case  very  convincingly,”  an¬ 
swered  Gouache.  “  But  why  has  the  larger  republic,  which 
was  to  contain  the  smaller  one,  ceased  to  exist  ?  or  rather,  why 
did  it  never  come  into  existence  ?” 

“  Because  man  has  not  yet  fulfilled  his  part  in  the  great  con¬ 
tract.  The  matter  lies  in  a  nutshell.  The  men  who  enter  the 
Church  are  sufficiently  intelligent  and  well  educated  to  appre¬ 
ciate  the  advantages  of  Christian  democracy,  fellowship,  soli¬ 
darity,  and  brotherly  love.  The  republic  of  the  Church  has 
therefore  survived,  and  will  survive  for  ever.  The  men  who 
form  the  majority,  on  the  other  hand,  have  never  had  either 
the  intelligence  or  the  education  to  understand  that  democracy 
is  the  ultimate  form  of  government :  instead  of  forming  them¬ 
selves  into  a  federation,  they  have  divided  themselves  into  hos¬ 
tile  factions,  calling  themselves  nations,  and  seeking  every  oc¬ 
casion  for  destroying  and  plundering  each  other,  frequently 
even  turning  against  the  Church  herself.  The  Church  has 
committed  faults  in  history,  without  doubt,  but  on  the  whole 
she  has  nobly  fulfilled  her  contract,  and  reaps  the  fruits  of 
fidelity  in  the  vigour  and  unity  she  displays  after  eighteen  cen¬ 
turies.  Man,  on  the  other  hand,  has  failed  to  do  his  duty,  and 
all  races  of  men  are  consequently  suffering  for  their  misdeeds; 
the  nations  are  divided  against  each  other,  and  every  nation  is 
a  house  divided  against  itself,  which  sooner  or  later  shall  fall.” 

“  But,”  objected  Gouache,  “  allowing,  as  one  easily  may,  that 
all  this  is  true,  your  Eminence  is  always  called  reactionary  in 
politics.  Does  that  accord  with  these  views  ?  ” 

Gouache  believed  the  question  unanswerable,  but  as  he  put  it 
he  worked  calmly  on  with  his  pencil,  labouring  hard  to  catch 
something  of  the  CardinaTs  striking  expression  in  the  rough 
drawing  he  was  making. 

“  Nothing  is  easier,  my  friend,”  replied  the  statesman.  “  The 
republic  of  the  Church  is  driven  to  bay.  We  are  on  a  war  foot¬ 
ing.  For  the  sake  of  strength  we  are  obliged  to  hold  together 
so  firmly  that  for  the  time  we  can  only  think  of  maintaining 
old  traditions  without  dreaming  of  progress  or  spending  time 
in  experiments.  When  we  have  weathered  the  storm  we  shall 
have  leisure  for  improving  much  that  needs  improvement.  Do 
not  think  that  if  I  am  alive  twenty  years  hence  I  shall  advise 
what  I  advise  now.  We  are  fighting  now,  and  we  have  no  time 
to  think  of  the  arts  of  peace.  We  shall  have  peace  some  day. 
We  shall  lose  an  ornament  or  two  from  our  garments  in  the 
struggle,  but  our  body  will  not  be  injured,  and  in  time  of  peace 
our  ornaments  will  be  restored  to  us  fourfold.  But  now  there 
is  war  and  rumour  of  war.  There  is  a  vast  difference  between 


SARACINESCA. 


183 


the  ideal  republic  which  I  was  speaking  of,  and  the  real  an¬ 
archy  and  confusion  which  would  be  brought  about  by  what  is 

called  republicanism.”  ,  .  , 

“  In  other  words,  if  the  attack  upon  the  Church  were  sud¬ 
denly  abandoned,  your  Eminence  would  immediately  abandon 
your  reactionary  policy,”  said  Gouache,  “and  adopt  progressive 
views  ?  ” 

“  Immediately,”  replied  the  Cardinal. 

“  I  see,”  said  Gouache.  “  A  little  more  towards  me— just  so 
that  I  can  catch  that  eye.  Thank  you— that  will  do.” 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

When  Del  Eerice  was  thought  sufficiently  recovered  of  his 
wound  to  hear  some  of  the  news  of  the  day,  which  was  about 
three  weeks  after  the  duel,  he  learned  that  Astrardente  was 
dead,  that  the  Duchessa  had  inherited  all  his  fortune,  and  that 
she  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  Rome.  It  would  be  hard  to 
say  how  the  information  of  her  approaching  departure  had  got 
abroad;  it  might  be  merely  a  clever  guess  of  the  gossips,  or  it 
might  be  the  report  gleaned  from  her  maid  by  all  the  other 
maids  in  town.  Be  that  as  it  may,  when  Del  Eerice  heard  it 
he  ground  his  teeth  as  he  lay  upon  his  bed,  and  swore  that  if 
it  were  possible  to  prevent  the  Duchessa  d'Astrardente  from 
leaving  town  he  would  do  it.  In  his  judgment  it  would  be  a 
dangerous  thing  to  let  Corona  and  Giovanni  part,  and  to  allow 
Donna  Tullia  free  play  in  her  matrimonial  designs.  Of  course 
Giovanni  would  never  marry  Madame  Mayer,  especially  as  he 
was  now  at  liberty  to  marry  the  Astrardente;  but  Madame 
Mayer  herself  might  become  fatally  interested  in  him,  as  she 
already  seemed  inclined  to  be,  and  this  would  be  bad  for  Del 
Ferice's  own  prospects.  It  would  not  do  to  squander  any  of 
the  advantages  gained  by  the  death  of  the  old  Duca.  Giovanni 
must  be  hastened  into  a  marriage  with  Corona;  it  would  be 
time  enough  to  think  of  revenge  upon  him  afterwards  for  the 
ghastly  wound  that  took  so  long  to  heal. 

It  was  a  pity  that  Del  Ferice  and  Donna  Tullia  were  not 
allies,  for  if  Madame  Mayer  hated  Corona  d* Astrardente,  Ugo 
del  Ferice  detested  Giovanni  with  equal  virulency,  not  only 
because  he  had  been  so  terribly  worsted  by  him  in  the  duel  his 
own  vile  conduct  had  made  inevitable,  but  because  Donna  lul- 
lia  loved  him  and  was  doing  her  very  best  to  marry  him.  Evi¬ 
dently  the  best  thing  to  be  done  was  to  produce  a  misunder¬ 
standing  between  the  two;  but  it  would  be  dangerous  to  play 
any  tricks  with  Giovanni,  for  he  held  Del  Ferice  in  his  power 
by  his  knowledge  of  that  disagreeable  scene  behind  the  plants 
in  the  conservatory.  Saracinesca  was  a  great  man  in  society 


184 


SARACINESCA. 


and  celebrated  for  his  honesty;  people  would  believe  him  rather 
than  Del  Ferice,  if  the  story  got  abroad.  This  would  not  do. 
The  next  best  thing  was  to  endeavour  to  draw  Giovanni  and 
Corona  together  as  quickly  as  possible,  to  precipitate  their  en¬ 
gagement,  and  thus  to  clear  the  field  of  a  dangerous  rival. 
Del  Ferice  was  a  very  obstinate  and  a  very  intelligent  man. 
He  meant  more  than  ever  to  marry  Donna  Tullia  himself,  and 
he  would  not  be  hindered  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  object 
by  an  insignificant  scruple. 

He  was  not  allowed  to  speak  much,  lest  the  effort  should 
retard  the  healing  of  his  throat;  but  in  the  long  days  and 
nights,  when  he  lay  silent  in  his  quiet  lodging,  he  had  ample 
time  to  revolve  many  schemes  in  his  brain.  At  last  he  no 
longer  needed  the  care  of  the  Sister  of  Mercy;  his  servant  took 
charge  of  him,  and  the  surgeon  came  twice  a-day  to  dress  his 
wound.  He  lay  in  bed  one  morning  watching  Temistocle,  who 
moved  noiselessly  about  the  room. 

“Temistocle,”  he  said,  “you  are  a  youth  of  intelligence:  you 
must  use  the  gifts  nature  has  given  you.” 

Temistocle  was  at  that  time  not  more  than  five-and-twenty 
years  of  age.  He  had  a  muddy  complexion,  a  sharp  hooked 
nose,  and  a  cast  in  one  eye  that  gave  him  a  singularly  unplea¬ 
sant  expression.  As  his  master  addressed  him,  he  stood  still 
and  listened  with  a  sort  of  distorted  smile  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  compliment  made  him. 

“  Temistocle,  you  must  find  out  when  the  Duchessa  d^Astrar- 
dente  means  to  leave  Rome,  and  where  she  is  going.  You 
know  somebody  in  the  house  ?  ” 

“Yes,  sir — the  under-cook;  he  stood  godfather  with  me  for 
the  baby  of  a  cousin  of  mine — the  young  man  who  drives 
Prince  Valdarno’s  private  brougham:  a  clever  fellow,  too.” 

“  And  this  under-cook,”  said  Del  Ferice,  who  was  not  above 
entering  into  details  with  his  servant — “  is  he  a  discreet  cha¬ 
racter  ?  ” 

“Oh,  for  that,  you  may  trust  him.  Only  sometimes - ” 

Temistocle  grinned,  and  made  a  gesture  which  signified  drink¬ 
ing. 

“And  when  he  is  drunk  ?”  asked  Del  Ferice. 

“When  he  is  drunk  he  tells  everything;  but  he  never  re¬ 
members  anything  he  has  been  told,  or  has  said.  When  he  is 
drunk  he  is  a  dictionary;  but  the  first  draught  of  water  washes 
out  his  memory  like  a  slate.” 

“Well — give  me  my  purse;  it  is  under  my  pillow.  Go. 
Here  is  a  scudo ,  Temistocle.  You  can  make  him  very  drunk 
for  that.” 

Temistocle  hesitated,  and  looked  at  the  money. 

“  Another  couple  of  pauls  would  make  it  safer,”  he  remarked. 


SARACINESCA. 


185 


“Well,  there  they  are;  but  you  must  make  him  very  drunk 
indeed.  You  must  find  out  all  he  knows,  and  you  must  keep 
sober  yourself.” 

“  Leave  that  to  me.  I  will  make  of  him  a  sponge ;  he  shall 
be  squeezed  dry,  and  sopped  again  and  squeezed  again.  I  will 
be  his  confessor.” 

“  If  you  find  out  what  I  want,  I  will  give  you - ”  Del  Fe¬ 

nce  hesitated;  he  did  not  mean  to  give  too  much. 

“  The  grey  trousers  ?”  asked  Temistocle,  with  an  avaricious 
light  in  the  eye  which  did  not  wander. 

“Yes,”  answered  his  master,  rather  regretfully;  “  I  suppose 
you  must  have  the  grey  trousers  at  last.” 

“  For  those  grey  trousers  I  will  upset  heaven  and  earth,”  re¬ 
turned  Temistocle  in  great  glee. 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  that  day,  but  early  on  the  follow¬ 
ing  morning  the  man  entered  and  opened  the  shutters,  and 
removed  the  little  oil-light  that  had  burned  all  night.  He 
kept  one  eye  upon  his  master,  who  presently  turned  slowly  and 
looked  inquiringly  at  him. 

“  The  Duchessa  goes  to  Astrardente  in  the  Sabines  on  the 
day  after  to-morrow,”  said  Temistocle.  “  It  is  quite  sure  that 
she  goes,  because  she  has  already  sent  out  two  pairs  of  horses, 
and  several  boxes  of  effects,  besides  the  second  housemaid  and 
the  butler  and  two  grooms.” 

“  Ah !  that  is  very  good.  Temistocle,  I  think  I  will  get  up 
this  morning  and  sit  in  the  next  room.” 

“  And  the  grey  trousers  ?” 

“  Take  them,  and  wear  them  in  honour  of  the  most  generous 
master  living,”  said  Del  Ferice,  impressively.  “  It  is  not  every 
master  who  gives  his  servant  a  pair  of  grey  trousers.  Remember 
that.” 

“  Heaven  bless  you,  Signor  Conte !  ”  exclaimed  Temistocle, 
devoutly. 

Del  Ferice  lost  no  time.  He  was  terribly  weak  still,  and  his 
wound  was  not  entirely  healed  yet;  but  he  set  himself  reso¬ 
lutely  to  his  writing-table,  and  did  not  rise  until  he  had  written 
two  letters.  The  first  was  carefully  written  in  a  large  round 
hand,  such  as  is  used  by  copyists  in  Italy,  resembling  the 
Gothic.  It  was  impossible  to  connect  the  laboriously  formed 
and  conventional  letters  with  any  particular  person.  It  was 
very  short,  as  follows : — 

“  It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  the  Duchessa  d’Astrar- 
dente  is  going  to  her  castle  in  the  Sabines  on  the  day  after  to¬ 
morrow.” 

This  laconic  epistle  Del  Ferice  carefully  directed  to  Don  Gio¬ 
vanni  Saracinesca  at  his  palace,  and  fastened  a  stamp  upon  it; 
but  he  concealed  the  address  from  Temistocle.  The  second 


186 


SARACIKESCA. 


letter  was  longer,  and  written  in  his  own  small  and  ornate 
handwriting.  It  was  to  Donna  Tullia  Mayer.  It  ran  thus : — 

“  You  would  forgive  my  importuning  you  with  a  letter,  most 
charming  Donna  Tullia,  if  you  could  conceive  of  my  desola¬ 
tion  and  loneliness.  For  more  than  three  weeks  I  have  been 
entirely  dejDrived  of  the  pleasure,  the  exquisite  delight,  of  con¬ 
versing  with  her  for  whom  I  have  suffered.  I  still  suffer  so 
much.  Ah !  if  my  paper  were  a  cloth  of  gold,  and  my  pen  in 
moving  traced  characters  of  diamond  and  pearl,  yet  any  words 
which  speak  of  you  would  be  ineffectually  honoured  by  such 
transcription!  In  the  miserable  days  and  nights  I  have  passed 
between  life  and  death,  it  is  your  image  which  has  consoled 
me,  the  echo  of  your  delicate  voice  which  has  soothed  my  pain, 
the  remembrance  of  the  last  hours  I  spent  with  you  which  has 
gilded  the  feverish  dreams  of  my  sickness.  You  are  the 
guardian  angel  of  a  most  unhappy  man,  Donna  Tullia.  Do 
you  know  it  ?  But  for  you  I  would  have  wooed  death  as  a 
comforter.  As  it  is,  I  have  struggled  desperately  to  keep  my 
grasp  upon  life,  in  the  hope  of  once  more  seeing  your  smile  and 
hearing  your  happy  laugh;  perhaps — I  dare  not  expect  it — I 
may  receive  from  you  some  slight  word  of  sympathy,  some 
little  half-sighed  hint  that  you  do  not  altogether  regret  having 
been  in  these  long  weeks  the  unconscious  comforter  of  my 
sorrowing  spirit  and  tormented  body.  You  would  hardly 
know  me,  conld  you  see  me;  but  saving  for  your  sweet 
spiritual  presence,  which  has  rescued  me  from  the  jaws  of 
death,  you  would  never  have  seen  me  again.  Is  it  presump¬ 
tion  in  me  to  write  thus  ?  Have  you  ever  given  me  a  right  to 
speak  in  these  words  ?  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  care.  Man 
has  a  right  to  be  grateful.  It  is  the  first  and  most  divine  right 
I  suppose,  to  feel  and  to  express  my  gratitude.  For  out  of  the 
store  of  your  kindness  shown  me  when  I  was  in  the  world, 
strong  and  happy  in  the  privilege  of  your  society,  I  have  drawn 
healing  medicine  in  my  sickness,  as  tormented  souls  in  purgatory 
get  refreshment  from  the  prayers  of  good  and  kind  people  who 
remember  them  on  earth.  So,  therefore,  if  I  have  said  too 
much,  forgive  me,  forgive  the  heartfelt  gratitude  which 
prompts  me;  and  believe  still  in  the  respectful  and  undying 
devotion  of  the  humblest  of  your  servants,  Ugo  Del  Ferice.” 

Del  Ferice  read  over  what  he  had  written  with  considerable 
satisfaction,  and  having  addressed  his  letter  to  Donna  Tullia, 
he  lost  no  time  in  despatching  Temistocle  with  it,  instructing 
him  to  ask  if  there  would  be  an  answer.  As  soon  as  the  man 
was  out  of  the  house,  Ugo  rang  for  his  landlady,  and  sent  for 
the  porter’s  little  boy,  to  whom  he  delivered  the  letter  to  Don 
Giovanni,  to  be  dropped  into  the  nearest  post-box.  Then  he  lay 


SARACINESCA. 


187 


down,  exhausted  with  his  morning’s  work.  In  the  course  of  two 
hours  Temistocle  returned  from  Donna  Tullia’s  house  with  a 
little  scented  note — too  much  scented,  and  the  paper  just  a 
shade  too  small.  She  took  no  notice  of  what  he  had  said  in  his 
carefully  penned  epistle;  but  merely  told  him  she  was  sin¬ 
cerely  glad  that  he  was  better,  and  asked  him  to  call  as  soon  as 
he  could.  Ugo  was  not  disappointed;  he  had  expected  no 
compromising  expression  of  interest  in  response  to  his  own 
effusions;  and  he  was  well  pleased  with  the  invitation,  for  it 
showed  that  what  he  had  written  had  produced  the  desired  result. 

Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca  received  the  anonymous  note  late 
in  the  evening.  He  had,  of  course,  together  with  his  father, 
deposited  cards  of  condolence  at  the  Palazzo  Astrardente,  and 
he  had  been  alone  to  inquire  if  the  Duchessa  would  receive 
him.  The  porter  had  answered  that,  for  the  present,  there 
were  standing  orders  to  admit  no  one ;  and  as  Giovanni  could 
boast  of  no  especial  intimacy,  and  had  no  valid  excuse  to  give, 
he  was  obliged  to  be  satisfied.  He  had  patiently  waited  in  the 
Villa  Borghese  and  by  the  band -stand  on  the  Pincio,  taking  it 
for  granted  that  sooner  or  later  Corona’s  carriage  would  ap¬ 
pear;  but  when  at  last  he  had  seen  her  brougham,  she  had 
driven  rapidly  past  him,  thickly  veiled,  and  he  did  not  think 
she  had  even  noticed  him.  He  would  have  written  to  her,  but 
he  was  still  unable  to  hold  a  pen;  and  he  reflected  that,  after 
all,  it  would  have  been  a  hideous  farce  for  him  to  offer  condo¬ 
lences  and  sympathy,  however  much  he  might  desire  to  hide 
from  himself  his  secret  satisfaction  at  her  husband’s  death. 
Too  proud  to  think  of  obtaining  information  through  such 
base  channels  as  Del  Ferice  was  willing  to  use,  he  was  wholly 
ignorant  of  Corona’s  intentions;  and  it  was  a  brilliant  proof  of 
Ugo’s  astuteness  that  he  had  rightly  judged  Giovanni’s  position 
with  regard  to  her,  and  justly  estimated  the  value  of  the  news 
conveyed  by  his  anonymous  note. 

Saracinesca  read  the  scrap  of  writing,  and  tossed  it  angrily 
into  the  fire.  He  hated  underhand  dealings,  and  scorned  him¬ 
self  for  the  interest  the  note  excited  in  him,  wondering  who 
could  find  advantage  in  informing  him  of  the  Duchessa’s 
movements.  But  the  note  took  effect,  nevertheless,  although 
he  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  all  night  he  pondered  upon  what  it 
told  him.  The  next  day,  at  three  o’clock,  he  went  out  alone, 
and  walked  rapidly  towards  the  Palazzo  Astrardente.  He  was 
unable  to  bear  the  suspense  any  longer;  the  thought  that  Co¬ 
rona  was  going  away,  apparently  to  shut  herself  up  in  the  solitude 
of  the  ancient  fortress,  for  any  unknown  number  of  months, 
and  that  he  might  not  see  her  until  the  autumn,  was  intole¬ 
rable.  He  knew  that  by  the  mere  use  of  his  name  he  could  at 
least  make  sure  that  she  should  know  he  was  at  her  door,  and 


188 


SARACINESCA. 


he  determined  to  make  the  attempt.  He  waited  a  long  time, 
pacing  slowly  the  broad  flagstones  beneath  the  arch  of  the 
palace,  while  the  porter  himself  went  up  with  his  card  and 
message.  The  fellow  had  hesitated,  but  Don  Giovanni  Sara- 
cinesca  was  not  a  man  to  be  refused  by  a  servant.  At  last  the 
porter  returned,  and,  bowing  to  the  ground,  said  that  the  Sig¬ 
nora  Duchessa  would  receive  him. 

In  five  minutes  he  was  waiting  alone  in  the  great  drawing¬ 
room.  It  had  cost  Corona  a  struggle  to  allow  him  to  be 
admitted.  She  hesitated  long,  for  it  seemed  like  a  positive 
wrong  to  her  husband’s  memory,  but  the  woman  in  her  yielded 
at  last ;  she  was  going  away  on  the  following  morning,  and  she 
could  not  refuse  to  see  him  for  once.  She  hesitated  again  as 
she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  door,  knowing  that  he 
was  in  the  room  beyond ;  then  at  last  she  entered. 

Her  face  was  very  pale  and  very  grave.  Her  simple  gown  of 
close-fitting  black  set  off  her  height  and  figure,  and  flowed 
softly  in  harmony  with  her  stately  movements  as  she  advanced 
towards  Giovanni,  who  stood  almost  awe-struck  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  He  could  not  realise  that  this  dark  sad  princess 
was  the  same  woman  to  whom  less  than  a  month  ago  he  had 
spoken  such  passionate  words,  whom  he  had  madly  tried  to 
take  into  his  arms.  Proud  as  he  was,  it  seemed  presumptuous 
in  him  to  think  of  love  in  connection  with  so  royal  a  woman ; 
and  yet  he  knew  that  he  loved  her  better  and  more  truly  than 
he  had  done  a  month  before.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and 
he  raised  it  to  his  lips.  Then  they  both  sat  down  in  silence. 

“  I  had  despaired  of  ever  seeing  you  again,”  said  Giovanni  at 
last,  speaking  in  a  subdued  voice.  “  I  had  wished  for  some 
opportunity  of  telling  you  how  sincerely  I  sympathise  with  you 
in  your  great  loss.”  It  was  a  very  formal  speech,  such  as  men 
make  in  such  situations.  It  might  have  been  better,  but  he 
was  not  eloquent ;  even  his  rough  old  father  had  a  better  com¬ 
mand  of  language  on  ordinary  occasions,  though  Giovanni 
could  speak  well  enough  when  he  was  roused.  But  he  felt 
constrained  in  the  presence  of  the  woman  he  adored.  Corona 
herself  hardly  knew  how  to  answer. 

“  You  are  very  kind,”  she  said,  simply. 

“  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  be  of  any  service  to  you,”  he 
answered.  “  I  need  not  tell  you  that  both  my  father  and 
myself  would  hold  it  an  honour  to  assist  you  in  any  way.”  He 
mentioned  his  father  from  a  feeling  of  delicacy;  he  did  not 
wish  to  put  himself  forward. 

“  You  are  very  kind,”  repeated  Corona,  gravely.  “  I  have 
not  had  any  annoyance.  I  have  an  excellent  man  of  business.” 

There  was  a  moment’s  pause.  Then  she  seemed  to  under¬ 
stand  that  he  was  embarrassed,  and  spoke  again. 


SARACINESCA. 


189 


“  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  are  recovered,”  she  said. 

“  It  was  nothing,”  answered  Giovanni,  with  a  glance  at  his 
right  arm,  which  was  still  confined  in  a  bandage  of  black  silk, 
hut  was  no  longer  in  a  sling. 

“  It  was  very  wrong  of  you,”  returned  Corona,  looking  seri¬ 
ously  into  his  eyes.  “  I  do  not  know  why  you  fought,  but  it 
was  wrong ;  it  is  a  great  sin.” 

Giovanni  smiled  a  little. 

“  We  all  have  to  sin  sometimes,”  he  said.  “Would  you  have 
me  stand  quietly  and  see  an  abominable  piece  of  baseness,  and 
not  lift  a  hand  to  punish  the  offender  ?  ” 

“  People  who  do  base  things  always  come  to  a  bad  end,” 
answered  the  Duchessa. 

“  Perhaps.  But  we  poor  sinners  are  impatient  to  see  justice 
done  at  once.  I  am  sorry  to  have  done  anything  you  consider 
wrong,”  he  added,  with  a  shade  of  bitterness.  “  Will  you  per¬ 
mit  me  to  change  the  subject  ?  Are  you  thinking  of  remain¬ 
ing  in  Rome,  or  do  you  mean  to  go  away  ?  ” 

“  I  am  going  up  to  Astrardente  to-morrow,”  answered  Co¬ 
rona,  readily.  “  I  want  to  be  alone  and  in  the  country.” 

Giovanni  showed  no  surprise :  his  anonymous  information 
had  been  accurate ;  Del  Ferice  had  not  parted  with  the  grey 
trousers  in  vain. 

“  I  suppose  you  are  right,”  he  said.  “  But  at  this  time  of 
year  I  should  think  the  mountains  would  be  very  cold.” 

“  The  castle  is  comfortable.  It  has  been  recently  fitted  up, 
and  there  are  many  warm  rooms  in  it.  I  am  fond  of  the  old 
place,  and  I  need  to  be  alone  for  a  long  time.” 

Giovanni  thought  the  conversation  was  becoming  oppressive. 
He  thought  of  what  had  passed  between  them  at  their  last 
meeting  in  the  conservatory  of  the  Palazzo  Frangipani. 

“  I  shall  myself  pass  the  summer  in  Saracinesca,”  he  said, 
suddenly.  “  You  know  it  is  not  very  far.  May  I  hope  that  I 
may  sometimes  be  permitted  to  see  you  ?  ” 

Corona  had  certainly  had  no  thought  of  seeing  Giovanni 
when  she  had  determined  to  go  to  Astrardente ;  she  had  not 
been  there  often,  and  had  not  realised  that  it  was  within  reach 
of  the  Saracinesca  estate.  She  started  slightly. 

“  Is  it  so  near  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“  Half  a  day's  ride  over  the  hills,”  replied  Giovanni. 

“  I  did  not  know.  Of  course,  if  you  come,  you  will  not  be 
denied  hospitality.” 

“  But  you  would  rather  not  see  me  ?”  asked  Saracinesca,  in 
a  tone  of  disappointment.  He  had  hoped  for  something  more 
encouraging.  Corona  answered  courageously. 

“  I  would  rather  not  see  you.  Do  not  think  me  unkind,” 
she  added,  her  voice  softening  a  little.  “  Why  need  there  be 


190 


SARACINESCA. 


any  explanations  ?  Do  not  try  to  see  me.  I  wish  you  well;  I 
wish  you  more — all  happiness — hut  do  not  try  to  see  me.” 

Giovanni's  face  grew  grave  and  pale.  He  was  disappointed, 
even  humiliated ;  but  something  told  him  that  it  was  not  cold¬ 
ness  which  prompted  her  request. 

“  Your  commands  are  my  laws/'  he  answered. 

“  I  would  rather  that  instead  of  regarding  what  I  ask  you  as 
a  command,  you  should  feel  that  it  ought  to  be  the  natural 
prompting  of  your  own  heart/'  replied  Corona,  somewhat  coldly. 

“  Forgive  me  if  my  heart  dictates  what  my  obedience  to  you 
must  effectually  forbid,”  said  Giovanni.  “  I  beseech  you  to  be 
satisfied  that  what  you  ask  I  will  perform — blindly.” 

“  Not  blindly — you  know  all  my  reasons.” 

“  There  is  that  between  you  and  me  which  annihilates  rea¬ 
son,”  answered  Giovanni,  his  voice  trembling  a  little. 

“  There  is  that  in  my  position  which  should  command  your 
respect,”  said  Corona.  She  feared  he  was  going  too  far,  and 
yet  this  time  she  knew  she  had  not  said  too  much,  and  that  in 
bidding  him  avoid  her,  she  was  only  doing  what  was  strictly 
necessary  for  her  peace.  “lama  widow,”  she  continued,  very 
gravely;  “  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  am  alone.  My  only  protection 
lies  in  the  courtesy  I  have  a  right  to  expect  from  men  like  you. 
You  have  expressed  your  sympathy;  show  it  then  by  cheer¬ 
fully  fulfilling  my  request.  I  do  not  speak  in  riddles,  but  very 
plainly.  You  recall  to  me  a  moment  of  great  pain,  and  your 
presence,  the  mere  fact  of  my  receiving  you,  seems  a  disloyalty 
to  the  memory  of  my  husband.  I  have  given  you  no  reason  to 
believe  that  I  ever  took  a  greater  interest  in  you  than  such  as 
I  might  take  in  a  friend.  I  hourly  pray  that  this — this  too 
great  interest  you  show  in  me,  may  pass  quickly,  and  leave  you 
what  you  were  before.  You  see  I  do  not  speak  darkly,  and  I 
do  not  mean  to  speak  unkindly.  Do  not  answer  me,  I  beseech 
you,  but  take  this  as  my  last  word.  Forget  me  if  you  can - ” 

“  I  cannot,”  said  Giovanni,  deeply  moved. 

“  Try.  If  you  cannot,  God  help  you  !  but  I  am  sure  that  if 
you  try  faithfully,  you  will  succeed.  And  now  you  must  go,” 
she  said,  in  gentler  tones.  “You  should  not  have  come — I 
should  not  have  let  you  see  me.  But  it  is  best  so.  I  am 
grateful  for  the  sympathy  you  have  expressed.  I  do  not 
doubt  that  you  will  do  as  I  have  asked  you,  and  as  you  have 
promised.  Good-bye.” 

Corona  rose  to  her  feet,  her  hands  folded  before  her.  Gio¬ 
vanni  had  no  choice.  She  let  her  eyes  rest  upon  him,  not 
unkindly,  but  she  did  not  extend  her  hand.  He  stood  one 
moment  in  hesitation,  then  bowed  and  left  the  room  without  a 
word.  Corona  stood  still,  and  her  eyes  followed  his  retreating 
figure  until  at  the  door  he  turned  once  more  and  bent  his  head 


SARACINESCA. 


191 


and  then  was  gone.  Then  she  fell  back  into  her  chair  and 
gazed  listlessly  at  the  wall  opposite. 

“  It  is  done,”  she  said  at  last.  “  I  hope  it  is  well  done  and 
wisely.”  Indeed  it  had  been  a  hard  thing  to  say;  but  it  was 
better  to  say  it  at  once  than  to  regret  an  ill-timed  indulgence 
when  it  should  be  too  late.  And  yet  it  had  cost  her  less  to  send 
him  away  definitely  than  it  had  cost  her  to  resist  his  passionate 
appeal  a  month  ago.  She  seemed  to  have  gained  strength  from 
her  sorrows.  So  he  was  gone !  She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  which 
was  instantly  followed  by  a  sharp  throb  of  pain,  so  sudden  that 
she  hardly  understood  it. 

Her  preparations  were  all  made.  She  had  at  the  last  moment 
realised  that  it  was  not  fitting  for  her,  at  her  age,  to  travel 
alone,  nor  to  live  wholly  alone  in  her  widowhood.  She  had 
revolved  the  matter  in  her  mind,  and  had  decided  that  there 
was  no  woman  of  her  acquaintance  whom  she  could  ask  even 
for  a  short  time  to  stay  with  her.  She  had  no  friends,  no  rela¬ 
tions,  none  to  turn  to  in  such  a  need.  It  was  not  that  she 
cared  for  company  in  her  solitude;  it  was  merely  a  question  of 
propriety.  To  overcome  the  difficulty,  she  obtained  permission 
to  take  with  her  one  of  the  sisters  of  a  charitable  order  of  nuns, 
a  lady  in  middle  life,  but  broken  down  and  in  ill  health  from 
her  untiring  labours.  The  thing  was  easily  managed ;  and  the 
next  morning,  on  leaving  the  palace,  she  stopped  at  the  gate  of 
the  community  and  found  Sister  Gabrieli  e  waiting  with  her 
modest  box.  The  nun  entered  the  huge  travelling  carriage, 
and  the  two  ladies  set  out  for  Astrardente. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  Carnival,  and  a  memorably  sad  one  for 
Giovanni  Saracinesca.  He  would  have  been  capable  of  leaving 
Rome  at  once,  but  that  he  had  promised  Corona  not  to  attempt 
,to  see  her.  He  would  have  gone  to  Saracinesca  for  the  mere 
sake  of  being  nearer  to  her,  had  he  not  reflected  that  he  would 
be  encouraging  all  manner  of  gossip  by  so  doing.  But  he 
determined  that  so  soon  as  Lent  began,  he  would  declare  his 
intention  of  leaving  the  city  for  a  year.  No  one  ever  went  to 
Saracinesca,  and  by  making  a  circuit  he  could  reach  the  an¬ 
cestral  castle  without  creating  suspicion.  He  might  even  go 
to  Paris  for  a  few  days,  and  have  it  supposed  that  he  was 
wandering  about  Europe,  for  he  could  trust  his  own  servants 
implicitly;  they  were  not  of  the  type  who  would  drink  wine  at 
a  tavern  with  Temistocle  or  any  of  his  class. 

The  old  Prince  came  into  his  son’s  room  in  the  morning  and 
found  him  disconsolately  looking  over  his  guns,  for  the  sake 
of  an  occupation. 

“Well,  Giovanni,”  he  said,  “you  have  time  to  reflect  upon 
your  future  conduct.  What!  are  you  going  upon  a  shooting 
expedition?” 


192 


SARACINESCA. 


"I  wish  I  could.  I  wish  I  could  find  anything  to  do,” 
answered  Giovanni,  laying  down  the  breech-loader  and  looking 
out  of  the  window.  “  The  world  is  turned  inside  out  like  a 
beggar’s  pocket,  and  there  is  nothing  in  it.” 

“  So  the  Astrardente  is  gone,”  remarked  the  Prince. 

“Yes;  gone  to  live  within  twenty  miles  of  Saracinesca,”  re¬ 
plied  Giovanni,  with  an  angry  intonation. 

“  Do  not  go  there  yet,”  said  his  father.  “  Leave  her  alone  a 
while.  Women  become  frantic  in  solitude.” 

“  Do  you  think  I  am  an  idiot  ?”  exclaimed  Giovanni.  “  Of 
course  I  shall  stay  where  I  am  till  Carnival  is  over.”  He  was 
not  in  a  good  humour. 

“Why  are  you  so  petulant?”  retorted  the  old  man.  “I 
merely  gave  you  my  advice.” 

“  Well,  I  am  going  to  follow  it.  It  is  good.  When  Carnival 
is  over  I  will  go  away,  and  perhaps  get  to  Saracinesca  by  a 
roundabout  way,  so  that  no  one  will  know  where  I  am.  Will 
you  not  come  too  ?  ” 

“  I  daresay,”  answered  the  Prince,  who  was  always  pleased 
when  his  son  expressed  a  desire  for  his  company.  “  I  wish  we 
lived  in  the  good  old  times.” 

“Why?” 

“We  would  make  small  scruple  of  besieging  Astrardente  and 
carrying  off  the  Duchessa  for  you,  my  boy,”  said  the  Prince, 
grimly. 

Giovanni  laughed.  Perhaps  the  same  idea  had  crossed  his 
mind.  He  was  not  quite  sure  whether  it  was  respectful  to 
Corona  to  think  of  carrying  her  off  in  the  way  his  father  sug¬ 
gested;  but  there  was  a  curious  flavour  of  possibility  in  the 
suggestion,  coming  as  it  did  from  a  man  whose  grandfather 
might  have  done  such  a  thing,  and  whose  great-grandfather 
was  said  to  have  done  it.  So  strong  are  the  instincts  of  bar¬ 
baric  domination  in  races  where  the  traditions  of  violence  exist 
in  an  unbroken  chain,  that  both  father  and  son  smiled  at  the 
idea  as  if  it  were  quite  natural,  although  Giovanni  had  only 
the  previous  day  promised  that  he  would  not  even  attempt  to 
see  Corona  d’Astrardente  without  her  permission.  He  did  not 
tell  his  father  of  his  promise,  however,  for  his  more  delicate 
instinct  made  him  sure  that  though  he  had  acted  rightly,  his 
father  would  laugh  at  his  scruples,  and  tell,  him  that  women 
liked  to  be  wooed  roughly. 

Meanwhile  Giovanni  felt  that  Pome  had  become  for  him  a 
vast  solitude,  and  the  smile  soon  faded  from  his  face  at  the 
thought  that  he  must  go  out  into  the  world,  and  for  Corona’s 
sake  act  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 


SARACINESCA. 


193 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

Poor  Madame  Mayer  was  in  great  anxiety  of  mind.  She  had 
not  a  great  amount  of  pride,  but  she  made  up  for  it  by  a 
plentiful  endowment  of  vanity,  in  which  she  suffered  acutely. 
She  was  a  good-natured  woman  enough,  and  by  nature  she  was 
not  vindictive;  but  she  could  not  help  being  jealous,  for  she 
was  in  love.  She  felt  how  Giovanni  every  day  evidently  cared 
less  and  less  for  her  society,  and  how,  on  the  other  hand,  Del 
Ferice  was  quietly  assuring  his  position,  so  that  people  already 
began  to  whisper  that  he  had  a  chance  of  becoming  her  hus¬ 
band.  She  did  not  dislike  Del  Ferice;  he  was  a  convenient 
man  of  the  world,  whom  she  always  found  ready  to  help  her 
when  she  needed  help.  But  by  dint  of  making  use  of  him,  she 
was  beginning  to  feel  in  some  way  bound  to  consider  him  as  an 
element  in  her  life,  and  she  did  not  like  the  position.  The 
letter  he  had  written  her  was  of  the  kind  a  man  might  write  to 
the  woman  he  loved;  it  bordered  upon  the  familiar,  even  while 
the  writer  expressed  himself  in  terms  of  exaggerated  respect. 
Perhaps  if  Del  Ferice  had  been  well,  she  would  have  simply 
taken  no  notice  of  what  he  had  written,  and  would  not  even 
have  sent  an  answer;  but  she  had  not  the  heart  to  repulse  him 
altogether  in  his  present  condition.  There  was  a  phrase  cun¬ 
ningly  introduced  and  ambiguously  worded,  which  seemed  to 
mean  that  he  had  come  by  his  wound  in  her  cause.  He  spoke 
of  having  suffered  and  of  still  suffering  so  much  for  her, — did 
he  mean  to  refer  to  pain  of  body  or  of  mind  ?  It  was  not  cer¬ 
tain.  Don  Giovanni  had  assured  her  that  she  was  in  no  way 
concerned  in  the  duel,  and  he  was  well  known  for  his  honesty; 
nevertheless,  out  of  delicacy,  he  might  have  desired  to  conceal 
the  truth  from  her.  It  seemed  like  him.  She  longed  for  an 
opportunity  of  talking  with  him  and  eliciting  some  explanation 
of  his  conduct.  There  had  been  a  time  when  he  used  to  visit 
her,  and  always  spent  some  time  in  her  society  when  they  met 
in  the  world — now,  on  the  contrary,  he  seemed  to  avoid  her 
whenever  he  could;  and  in  proportion  as  she  noticed  that  his 
manner  cooled,  her  own  jealousy  against  Corona  d'Astrardente 
increased  in  force,  until  at  last  it  seemed  to  absorb  her  love  for 
Giovanni  into  itself  and  turn  it  into  hate. 

Love  is  a  passion  which,  like  certain  powerful  drugs,  acts 
differently  upon  each  different  constitution  of  temper;  love 
also  acts  more  strongly  when  it  is  unreturned  or  thwarted  than 
when  it  is  mutual  and  uneventful.  If  two  persons  love  each 
other  truly,  and  there  is  no  obstacle  to  their  union,  it  is  proba¬ 
ble  that,  without  any  violent  emotion,  their  love  will  grow  and 
become  stronger  by  imperceptible  degrees,  without  changing 
in  its  natural  quality;  but  if  thwarted  by  untoward  circum- 


194 


SARACINESCA. 


stances,  the  passion,  if  true,  attains  suddenly  to  the  dimensions 
which  it  would  otherwise  need  years  to  reach.  It  sometimes 
happens  that  the  nature  in  which  this  unforeseen  and  abnor¬ 
mal  development  takes  place  is  unable  to  bear  the  precocious 
growth;  then,  losing  sight  of  its  identity  in  the  strange  inward 
confusion  of  heart  and  mind  which  ensues,  it  is  driven  to  mad¬ 
ness,  and,  breaking  every  barrier,  either  attains  its  object  at  a 
single  bound,  or  is  shivered  and  ruined  in  dashing  itself  against 
the  impenetrable  wall  of  complete  impossibility.  But  again, 
in  the  last  case,  when  love  is  wholly  unreturned,  it  dies  a 
natural  death  of  atrophy,  when  it  has  existed  in  a  person  of 
common  and  average  nature;  or  if  the  man  or  woman  so 
afflicted  be  proud  and  of  noble  instincts,  the  passion  becomes  a 
kind  of  religion  to  the  heart — sacred,  and  worthy  to  be  guarded 
from  the  eyes  of  the  world;  or,  finally,  again,  where  it  finds 
vanity  the  dominant  characteristic  of  the  being  in  whom  it  has 
grown,  it  draws  a  poisonous  life  from  the  unhealthy  soil  on 
which  it  is  fed,  and  the  tender  seed  of  love  shoots  and  puts 
forth  evil  leaves  and  blossoms,  and  grows  to  be  a  most  venomous 
tree,  which  is  the  tree  of  hatred. 

Donna  Tullia  was  certainly  a  woman  who  belonged  to  the 
latter  class  of  individuals.  She  had  qualities  which  were  per¬ 
haps  good  because  not  bad ;  but  the  mainspring  of  her  being 
was  an  inordinate  vanity;  and  it  was  in  this  characteristic  that 
she  was  most  deeply  wounded,  as  she  found  herself  gradually 
abandoned  by  Giovanni  Saracinesca.  She  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  thinking  of  him  as  a  probable  husband;  the  popular  talk 
had  fostered  the  idea,  and  occasional  hints,  and  smiling  ques¬ 
tions  concerning  him,  had  made  her  feel  that  he  could  not  long 
hang  back.  She  had  been  in  the  habit  of  treating  him  famil¬ 
iarly;  and  he,  tutored  by  his  father  to  the  belief  that  she  was 
the  best  match  for  him,  and  reluctantly  yielding  to  the  force 
of  circumstances,  which  seemed  driving  him  into  matrimony, 
had  suffered  himself  to  be  ordered  about  and  made  use  of  with 
an  indifference  which,  in  Madame  Mayer’s  eyes,  had  passed  for 
consent.  She  had  watched  with  growing  fear  and  jealousy  his 
devotion  to  the  Astrardente,  which  all  the  world  had  noticed ; 
and  at  last  her  anger  had  broken  out  at  the  affront  she  had 
received  at  the  Frangipani  ball.  But  even  then  she  loved 
Giovanni  in  her  own  vain  way.  It  was  not  till  Corona  was  sud¬ 
denly  left  a  widow,  that  Donna  Tullia  began  to  realise  the 
hopelessness  of  her  position;  and  when  she  found  how  deter- 
minately  Saracinesca  avoided  her  wherever  they  met,  the  affec¬ 
tion  she  had  hitherto  felt  for  him  turned  into  a  bitter  hatred, 
stronger  even  than  her  jealousy  against  the  Duchessa.  There 
was  no  scene  of  explanation  between  them,  no  words  passed,  no 
dramatic  situation,  such  as  Donna  Tullia  loved;  the  change 


SARACItfESCA.  195 

came  in  a  few  days,  and  was  complete.  She  had  not  even  the 
satisfaction  of  receiving  some  share  of  the  attention  Giovanni 
would  have  bestowed  upon  Corona  if  she  had  been  in  town. 
Not  only  had  he  grown  utterly  indifferent  to  her;  he  openly 
avoided  her,  and  thereby  inflicted  upon  her  vanity  the  cruellest 
wound  she  was  capable  of  feeling. 

With  Donna  Tullia  to  hate  was  to  injure,  to  long  for  revenge 
— not  of  the  kind  which  is  enjoyed  in  secret,  and  known  only 
to  the  person  who  suffers  and  the  person  who  causes  the  suffer¬ 
ing.  She  did  not  care  for  that  so  much  as  she  desired  some 
brilliant  triumph  over  her  enemies  before  the  world;  some 
startling  instance  of  poetic  justice,  which  should  at  one  blow 
do  a  mortal  injury  to  Corona  d’Astrardente,  and  bring  Giovanni 
Saracinesca  to  her  own  feet  by  force,  repentant  and  crushed,  to 
be  dealt  with  as  she  saw  fit,  according  to  his  misdeeds.  But 
she  had  chosen  her  adversaries  ill,  and  her  heart  misgave  her. 
She  had  no  hold  upon  them,  for  they  were  very  strong  people, 
very  powerful,  and  very  much  respected  by  their  fellows.  It 
was  not  easy  to  bring  them  into  trouble;  it  seemed  impossible 
to  humiliate  them  as  she  wished  to  do,  and  yet  her  hate  was 
very  strong.  She  waited  and  pondered,  and  in  the  meanwhile, 
when  she  met  Giovanni,  she  began  to  treat  him  with  haughty 
coldness.  But  Giovanni  smiled,  and  seemed  well  satisfied  that 
she  should  at  last  give  over  what  was  to  him  very  like  a  perse¬ 
cution.  Her  anger  grew  hotter  from  its  very  impotence.  The 
world  saw  it,  and  laughed. 

The  days  of  Carnival  came  and  passed,  much  as  they  usually 
pass,  in  a  whirl  of  gaiety.  Giovanni  went  everywhere,  and 
showed  his  grave  face ;  but  he  talked  little,  and  of  course  every 
one  said  he  was  melancholy  at  the  departure  of  the  Duchessa. 
Nevertheless  he  kept  up  an  appearance  of  interest  in  what  was 
done,  and  as  nobody  cared  to  risk  asking,  him  questions,  people 
left  him  in  peace.  The  hurrying  crowd  of  social  life  filled  up 
the  place  occupied  by  old  Astrardente  and  the  beautiful  Du¬ 
chessa,  and  they  were  soon  forgotten,  for  they  had  not  had 
many  intimate  friends. 

On  the  last  night  of  Carnival,  Del  Eerice  appeared  once 
more.  He  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  temptation  of  getting 
one  glimpse  of  the  world  he  loved,  before  the  wet  blanket  of 
Lent  extinguished  the  lights  of  the  ballrooms  and  the  jollity  of 
the  dancers.  Every  one  was  surprised  to  see  him,  and  most 
people  were  pleased;  he  was  such  a  useful  man,  that  he  had 
often  been  missed  during  the  time  of  his  illness.  He  was  im¬ 
proved  in  appearance;  for  though  he  was  very  pale,  he  had 
grown  also  extremely  thin,  and  his  features  had  gained  delicacy. 

When  Giovanni  saw  him,  he  went  up  to  him,  and  the  two 
men  exchanged  a  formal  salutation,  while  every  one  stood  still 


196 


SARACINESCA. 


for  a  moment  to  see  the  meeting.  It  was  over  in  a  moment, 
and  society  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  as  though  a  weight  were 
removed  from  its  mind.  Then  Del  Ferice  went  to  Donna 
Tullia's  side.  They  were  soon  alone  upon  a  small  sofa  in  a 
small  room,  whither  a  couple  strayed  now  and  then  to  remain  a 
few  minutes  before  returning  to  the  ball.  A  few  people  passed 
through,  but  for  more  than  an  hour  they  were  not  disturbed. 

“ I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,”  said  Donna  Tullia;  “but  I  had 
hoped  that  the  first  time  you  went  out  you  would  have  come  to 
my  house.” 

“  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  out — you  see  I  should  not 
have  found  you  at  home,  since  I  have  found  you  here.” 

“  Are  you  entirely  recovered  ?  You  still  look  ill.” 

“  I  am  a  little  weak — but  an  hour  with  you  will  do  me  more 
good  than  all  the  doctors  in  the  world.” 

“  Thanks,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  with  a  little  laugh.  “  It  was 
strange  to  see  you  shaking  hands  with  Giovanni  Saracinesca 
just  now.  I  suppose  men  have  to  do  that  sort  of  thing.” 

“You  may  be  sure  I  would  not  have  done  it  unless  it  had 
been  necessary,”  returned  Del  Ferice,  bitterly. 

“  I  should  think  not.  What  an  arrogant  man  he  is  !  ” 

“You  no  longer  like  him  ?  ”  asked  Del  Ferice,  innocently. 

“  Like  him  !  No;  I  neverliked  him,”  replied  Donna  Tullia, 
quickly. 

“  Oh,  I  thought  you  did  ;  I  used  to  wonder  at  it.”  Ugo 
grew  thoughtful. 

“  I  was  always  good  to  him,”  said  Donna  Tullia.  “  But  of 
course  I  can  never  forgive  him  for  what  he  did  at  the  Fran¬ 
gipani  ball.” 

“  No;  nor  I,”  answered  Del  Ferice,  readily.  “  I  shall  always 
hate  him  for  that  too.” 

“  I  do  not  say  that  I  exactly  hate  him.” 

“You  have  every  reason.  It  appears  to  me  that  since  my 
illness  we  have  another  idea  in  common,  another  bond  of  sym¬ 
pathy.”  Del  Ferice  spoke  almost  tenderly;  but  he  laughed 
immediately  afterwards,  as  though  not  wishing  his  words  to  be 
interpreted  too  seriously.  Donna  Tullia  smiled  too;  she  was 
inclined  to  be  very  kind  to  him. 

“  You  are  very  quick  to  jump  at  conclusions,”  she  said,  play¬ 
ing  with  her  red  fan  and  looking  down. 

“It  is  always  easy  to  reach  that  pleasant  conclusion — that 
you  and  I  are  in  sympathy,”  he  answered,  with  a  tender  glance, 
“  even  in  regard  to  hating  the  same  person.  The  bond  would 
be  close  indeed,  if  it  depended  on  the  opposite  of  hate.  And 
yet  I  sometimes  think  it  does.  Are  you  not  the  best  friend  I 
have  in  the  world  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  know, — I  am  a  good  friend  to  you,”  she  answered. 


SARACINESCA. 


197 


“  Indeed  you  are ;  but  do  you  not  think  it  would  be  possible 
to  cement  our  friendship  even  more  closely  yet  ?  ” 

Donna  Tullia  looked  up  sharply;  she  had  no  idea  of  allow¬ 
ing  him  to  propose  to  marry  her.  His  face,  however,  was  grave 
— unlike  his  usual  expression  when  he  meant  to  be  tender,  and 
which  she  knew  very  well. 

“I  do  not  know,”  she  said,  with  a  light  laugh.  “How  do 
you  mean  ?  ” 

“  If  I  could  do  you  some  great  service — if  I  could  by  any 
means  satisfy  what  is  now  your  chief  desire  in  life — would  not 
that  help  to  cement  our  friendship,  as  I  said  ?  ” 

“Perhaps,”  she  answered,  thoughtfully.  “  But  then  you  do 
not  know — you  cannot  guess  even — what  I  most  wish  at  this 
moment.” 

“  I  think  I  could,”  said  Del  Ferice,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  her. 
“  I  am  sure  I  could,  but  I  will  not.  I  should  risk  offending 
you.” 

“No;  I  will  not  be  angry.  You  may  guess  if  you  please.” 
Donna  Tullia  in  her  turn  looked  fixedly  at  her  companion. 
They  seemed  trying  to  read  each  other’s  thoughts. 

“Very  well,”  said  Hgo  at  last,  “  I  will  tell  you.  You  would 
like  to  see  the  Astrardente  dead  and  Giovanni  Saracinesca  pro¬ 
foundly  humiliated.” 

Donna  Tullia  started.  But  indeed  there  was  nothing  strange 
in  her  companion’s  knowledge  of  her  feelings.  Many  people, 
being  asked  what  she  felt,  would  very  likely  have  said  the  same, 
for  the  world  had  seen  her  discomfiture  and  had  laughed  at  it. 

“You  are  a  very  singular  man,”  she  said,  uneasily. 

“  In  other  words,”  replied  Del  Ferice,  calmly,  “  I  am  per¬ 
fectly  right  in  my  surmises.  I  see  it  in  your  face.  Of  course,” 
he  added,  with  a  laugh,  “  it  is  mere  jest.  But  the  thing  is  quite 
possible.  If  I  fulfilled  your  desire  of  just  and  poetic  vengeance, 
what  would  you  give  me?” 

Donna  Tullia  laughed  in  her  turn,  to  conceal  the  extreme 
interest  she  felt  in  what  he  said. 

“  Whatever  you  like,”  she  said.  But  even  while  the  laugh 
was  on  her  lips  her  eyes  sought  his  uneasily. 

“  Would  you  marry  me,  for  instance,  as  the  enchanted  prin¬ 
cess  in  the  fairy  story  marries  the  prince  who  frees  her  from 
the  spell  ?  ”  He  seemed  immensely  amused  at  the  idea. 

“  Why  not  ?  ”  she  laughed. 

“  It  would  be  the  only  just  recompense,”  he  answered.  “  See 
how  impossible  the  thing  appears.  And  yet  a  few  pounds  of 
dynamite  would  blow  up  the  Great  Pyramid.  Giovanni  Sara¬ 
cinesca  is  not  so  strong  as  he  looks.” 

“Oh,  I  would  not  have  him  hurt!”  exclaimed  Donna  Tullia 
in  alarm. 


198 


SARACINESCA. 


“  I  do  not  mean  physically,  nor  morally,  but  socially.” 

“  How  ?  ” 

“  That  is  my  secret,”  returned  Del  Ferice,  quietly. 

“  It  sounds  as  though  you  were  pretending  to  know  more 
than  you  really  do,”  she  answered. 

“No;  it  is  the  plain  truth,”  said  Del  Ferice,  quietly.  “If 
you  were  in  earnest  I  might  be  willing  to  tell  you  what  the 
secret  is,  but  for  a  mere  jest  I  cannot.  It  is  far  too  serious  a 
matter.” 

His  tone  convinced  Donna  Tullia  that  he  really  possessed 
some  weapon  which  he  could  use  against  Don  Giovanni  if  he 
pleased.  She  wondered  only  why,  if  it  were  true,  he  did  not 
use  it,  seeing  that  he  must  hate  Saracinesca  with  all  his  heart. 
Del  Ferice  knew  so  much  about  people,  so  many  strange  and 
forgotten  stories,  he  had  so  accurate  a  memory  and  so  acute 
an  intelligence,  that  it  was  by  no  means  impossible  that  he  was 
in  possession  of  some  secret  connected  with  the  Saracinesca. 
They  were,  or  were  thought  to  be,  wild,  unruly  men,  both 
father  and  son;  there  were  endless  stories  about  them  both; 
and  there  was  nothing  more  likely  than  that,  in  his  numerous 
absences  from  home,  Giovanni  had  at  one  time  or  another  fig¬ 
ured  in  some  romantic  affair,  which  he  would  be  sorry  to  have 
had  generally  known.  Del  Ferice  was  wise  enough  to  keep  his 
own  counsel;  but  now  that  his  hatred  was  thoroughly  roused, 
he  might  very  likely  make  use  of  the  knowledge  he  possessed. 
Donna  Tullia’s  curiosity  was  excited  to  its  highest  pitch,  and 
at  the  same  time  she  had  pleasant  visions  of  the  possible  humili¬ 
ation  of  the  man  by  whom  she  felt  herself  so  ill-used.  It  would 
be  worth  while  making  the  sacrifice  in  order  to  learn  Del  Fe¬ 
nce’s  secret. 

“  This  need  not  be  a  mere  jest,”  she  said,  after  a  moment’s 
silence. 

“  That  is  as  you  please,”  returned  Del  Ferice,  seriously.  “  If 
you  are  willing  to  do  your  part,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  will  do 
mine.” 

“  You  cannot  think  I  really  meant  what  I  said  just  now,” 
replied  Donna  Tullia.  “  It  would  be  madness.” 

“  Why  ?  Am  I  halt,  am  I  lame,  am  I  blind  ?  Am  I  repul¬ 
sively  ugly  ?  Am  I  a  pauper,  that  I  should  care  for  your 
money  ?  Have  I  not  loved  you — yes,  loved  you  long  and  faith¬ 
fully  ?  Am  I  too  old  ?  Is  there  anything  in  the  nature  of 
things  why  I  should  not  aspire  to  be  your  husband  ?  ” 

It  was  strange.  He  spoke  calmly,  as  though  enumerating 
the  advantages  of  a  friend.  Donna  Tullia  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment,  and  then  laughed  outright. 

“No,”  she  said;  “all  that  is  very  true.  You  may  aspire,  as 
you  call  it.  The  question  is,  whether  I  shall  aspire  too.  Of 


SARACINESCA. 


199 


course,  if  we  happened  to  agree  in  aspiring,  we  could  be  mar¬ 
ried  to-morrow.” 

“Precisely,”  answered  Del  Ferice,  perfectly  unmoved.  “I 
am  not  proposing  to  marry  you.  I  am  arguing  the  case. 
There  is  this  in  the  case  which  is  perhaps  outside  the  argument 
— this,  that  I  am  devotedly  attached  to  you.  The  case  is  the 
stronger  for  that.  I  was  only  trying  to  demonstrate  that  the 
idea  of  our  being  married  is  not  so  unutterably  absurd.  You 
laughingly  said  you  would  marry  me  if  I  could  accomplish 
something  which  would  please  you  very  much.  I  laughed  also; 
but  now  I  seriously  repeat  my  proposition,  because  I  am  con¬ 
vinced  that  although  at  first  sight  it  may  appear  extremely 
humorous,  on  a  closer  inspection  it  will  be  found  exceedingly 
practical.  In  union  is  strength.” 

Donna  Tullia  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  her  face  grew 
grave.  There  was  reason  in  what  he  said.  She  did  not  care 
for  him — she  had  never  thought  of  marrying  him;  but  she 
recognised  the  justice  of  what  he  said.  It  was  clear  that  a 
man  of  his  social  position,  received  everywhere  and  intimate 
with  all  her  associates,  might  think  of  marrying  her.  He 
looked  positively  handsome  since  he  was  wounded;  he  was  ac¬ 
complished  and  intelligent;  he  had  sufficient  means  of  support 
to  prevent  him  from  being  suspected  of  marrying  solely  for 
money,  and  he  had  calmly  stated  that  he  loved  her.  Perhaps 
he  did.  It  was  flattering  to  Donna  Tullia’s  vanity  to  believe 
him,  and  his  acts  had  certainly  not  belied  his  words.  He  was 
by  far  the  most  thoughtful  of  all  her  admirers,  and  he  affected 
to  treat  her  always  with  a  certain  respect  which  she  had  never 
succeeded  in  obtaining  from  Valdarno  and  the  rest.  A  woman 
who  likes  to  be  noisy,  but  is  conscious  of  being  a  little  vulgar, 
is  always  flattered  when  a  man  behaves  towards  her  with  pro¬ 
found  reverence.  It  will  even  sometimes  cure  her  of  her  vul¬ 
garity.  Donna  Tullia  reflected  seriously  upon  what  Del  Ferice 
had  said. 

“  I  never  had  such  a  proposition  made  to  me  in  my  life,”  she 
said.  “  Of  course  you  cannot  think  I  regard  it  as  a  possible 
one,  even  now.  You  cannot  think  I  am  so  base  as  to  sell  my¬ 
self  for  the  sake  of  revenging  an  insult  once  offered  me.  If  I 
am  to  regard  this  as  a  proposal  of  marriage,  I  must  decline  it 
with  thanks.  If  it  is  merely  a  proposition  for  an  alliance,  I 
think  the  terms  of  the  treaty  are  unequal.” 

Del  Ferice  smiled. 

“I  knew  you  well  enough  to  know  what  your  answer  would 
be,”  he  said.  “  I  never  insulted  you  by  dreaming  that  you 
would  accept  such  a  proposition.  But  as  a  subject  for  specu¬ 
lation  it  is  very  pleasant.  It  is  delightful  to  me  to  think  of 
being  your  husband;  it  is  equally  delightful  to  you  to  think  of 


200 


SARACINESCA. 


the  humiliation  of  an  enemy.  I  took  the  liberty  of  uniting 
the  two  thoughts  in  one  dream — a  dream  of  unspeakable  bliss 
for  myself.” 

Donna  Tullia’s  gay  humour  returned. 

“  You  have  certainly  amused  me  very  well  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  with  your  dreams,”  she  answered.  “  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  what  you  know  of  Don  Giovanni.  It  must  be  very 
interesting  if  it  can  really  seriously  influence  his  life.” 

“I  cannot  tell  you.  The  secret  is  too  valuable.” 

“  But  if  the  thing  you  know  has  such  power,  why  do  you  not 
use  it  yourself  ?  You  must  hate  him  far  more  than  I  do.” 

“  I  doubt  that,”  answered  Del  Ferice,  with  a  cunning  smile. 
“  I  do  not  use  it,  I  do  not  choose  to  strike  the  blow,  because  I 
do  not  care  enough  for  retribution  merely  on  my  own  account. 
I  do  not  pretend  to  generosity,  but  I  am  not  interested  enough 
in  him  to  harm  him,  though  I  dislike  him  exceedingly.  We 
had  a  temporary  settlement  of  our  difficulties  the  other  day, 
and  we  were  both  wounded.  Poor  Casalverde  lost  his  head 
and  did  a  foolish  thing,  and  that  cold-blooded  villain  Spicca 
killed  him  in  consequence.  It  seems  to  me  that  there  has  been 
enough  blood  spilled  in  our  quarrel.  I  am  prepared  to  leave 
him  alone  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  But  for  you  it  would  be 
different.  I  could  do  something  worse  than  kill  him  if  I  chose.” 

“  For  me  ?  ”  said  Donna  Tullia.  “  What  would  you  do  for 
me?”  She  smiled  sweetly,  willing  to  use  all  her  persuasion  to 
extract  his  secret. 

“  I  could  prevent  Don  Giovanni  from  marrying  the  Astrar- 
dente,  as  he  intends  to  do,”  he  answered,  looking  straight  at 
his  companion. 

“How  in  the  world  could  you  do  that  ?”  she  asked,  in  great 
surprise. 

“That,  my  dear  friend,  is  my  secret,  as  I  said  before.  I 
cannot  reveal  it  to  you  at  present.” 

“  You  are  as  dark  as  the  Holy  Office,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  a 
little  impatiently.  “What  possible  harm  could  it  do  if  you 
told  me  ?  ” 

“  What  possible  good  either  ?  ”  asked  Del  Ferice,  in  reply. 
“You  could  not  use  it  as  I  could.  You  would  gain  no  advan¬ 
tage  by  knowing  it.  Of  course,”  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  “  if 
we  entered  into  the  alliance  we  were  jesting  about,  it  would  be 
different.” 

“  You  will  not  tell  me  unless  I  promise  to  marry  you  ?” 

“  Frankly,  no,”  he  answered,  still  laughing. 

It  exasperated  Donna  Tullia  beyond  measure  to  feel  that  he 
was  in  possession  of  what  she  so  coveted,  and  to  feel  that  he 
was  bargaining,  half  in  earnest,  for  her  life  in  exchange  for  his 
secret.  She  was  almost  tempted  for  one  moment  to  assent,  to 


SARACINESCA. 


201 


say  she  would  marry  him,  so  great  was  her  curiosity;  it  would 
be  easy  to  break  her  promise,  and  laugh  at  him  afterwards. 
But  she  was  not  a  bad  woman,  as  women  of  her  class  are  con¬ 
sidered.  She  had  suffered  a  great  disappointment,  and  her 
resentment  was  in  proportion  to  her  vanity.  But  she  was  not 
prepared  to  give  a  false  promise  for  the  sake  of  vengeance;  she 
was  only  bad  enough  to  imagine  such  bad  faith  possible. 

“  But  you  said  you  never  seriously  thought  I  could  accept 
such  an  engagement,”  she  objected,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

“I  did,”  replied  Del  Ferice.  “ I  might  have  added  that  I 
never  seriously  contemplated  parting  with  my  secret.” 

“  There  is  nothing  to  be  got  from  you,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  in 
a  tone  of  disappointment.  “  I  think  that  when  you  have  nearly 
driven  me  mad  with  curiosity,  you  might  really  tell  me  some¬ 
thing.” 

“  Ah  no,  dear  lady,”  answered  her  companion.  “  You  may 
ask  anything  of  me  but  that — anything.  You  may  ask  that 
too,  if  you  will  sign  the  treaty  I  propose.” 

“You  will  drive  me  into  marrying  you  out  of  sheer  curi¬ 
osity,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  with  an  impatient  laugh. 

“  I  wish  that  were  possible.  I  wish  I  could  see  my  way  to 
telling  you  as  it  is,  for  the  thing  is  so  curious  that  it  would 
have  the  most  intense  interest  for  you.  But  it  is  quite  out  of 
the  question.” 

“  You  should  never  have  told  me  anything  about  it,”  replied 
Madame  Mayer. 

“  Well,  I  will  think  about  it,”  said  Del  Ferice  at  last,  as 
though  suddenly  resolving  to  make  a  sacrifice.  “  I  will  look 
over  some  papers  I  have,  and  I  will  think  about  it.  I  promise 
you  that  if  I  feel  that  I  can  conscientiously  tell  you  something 
of  the  matter,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  will.” 

Donna  Tullia’s  manner  changed  again,  from  impatience  to 
persuasion.  The  sudden  hope  he  held  out  to  her  was  delicious 
to  contemplate.  She  could  not  realise  that  Del  Ferice,  having 
once  thoroughly  interested  her,  could  play  upon  her  moods  as 
on  the  keys  of  an  instrument.  If  she  had  been  less  anxious 
that  the  story  he  told  should  be  true,  she  might  have  suspected 
that  he  was  practising  upon  her  credulity.  But  she  seized  the 
idea  of  obtaining  some  secret  influence  over  the  life  of  Gio¬ 
vanni,  and  it  completely  carried  her  away. 

“You  must  tell  me — I  am  sure  you  will,”  she  said,  letting 
her  kindest  glance  rest  upon  her  companion.  “  Come  and  dine 
with  me, — do  you  fast  ?  No — nor  I.  Come  on  Friday — will 
you  ?  ” 

“  I  shall  be  delighted,”  answered  Del  Ferice,  with  a  quiet 
smile  of  triumph. 

“I  will  have  the  old  lady,  of  course,  so  you  cannot  tell  me  at 


202 


SARACINESCA. 


dinner;  but  she  will  go  to  sleep  soon  afterwards — she  always 
does.  Come  at  seven.  Besides,  she  is  deaf,  you  know.” 

The  old  lady  in  question  was  the  aged  Countess  whom 
Donna  Tullia  affected  as  a  companion  in  her  solitary  mag¬ 
nificence. 

“  And  now,  will  you  take  me  back  to  the  ball-room  ?  I  have 
an  idea  that  a  partner  is  looking  for  me.” 

Del  Ferice  left  her  dancing,  and  went  home  in  his  little 
coupe.  He  was  desperately  fatigued,  for  he  was  still  very 
weak,  and  he  feared  lest  his  imprudence  in  going  out  so  soon 
might  bring  on  a  relapse  from  his  convalescence.  Neverthe¬ 
less,  before  he  went  to  bed  he  dismissed  Temistocle,  and  opened 
a  shabby-looking  black  box  which  stood  upon  his  writing- 
table.  It  was  bound  with  iron,  and  was  fastened  by  a  patent 
lock  which  had  frequently  defied  Temistocle’s  ingenuity. 
From  this  repository  he  took  a  great  number  of  papers,  which 
were  all  neatly  filed  away  and  marked  in  the  owner’s  small  and 
ornamented  handwriting.  Beneath  many  packages  of  letters 
he  found  what  he  sought  for,  a  long  envelope  containing  seve¬ 
ral  folded  documents. 

He  spread  out  the  papers  and  read  them  carefully  over. 

“  It  is  a  very  singular  thing,”  he  said  to  himself;  “but  there 
can  be  no  doubt  about  it.  There  it  is.” 

He  folded  the  papers  again,  returned  them  to  their  envelope, 
and  replaced  the  latter  deep  among  the  letters  in  his  box. 
He  then  locked  it,  attached  the  key  to  a  chain  he  wore  about 
his  neck,  and  went  to  bed,  worn  out  with  fatigue. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Del  Ferice  had  purposely  excited  Donna  Tullia’s  curiosity, 
and  he  meant  before  long  to  tell  more  than  he  had  vouchsafed 
in  his  first  confidence.  But  he  himself  trembled  before  the 
magnitude  of  what  he  had  suddenly  thought  of  doing,  for  the 
fear  of  Giovanni  was  in  his  heart.  The  temptation  to  boast  to 
Donna  Tullia  that  he  had  the  means  of  preventing  Giovanni 
from  marrying  was  too  strong;  but  when  it  had  come  to  tell¬ 
ing  her  what  those  means  were,  prudence  had  restrained  him. 
He  desired  that  if  the  scheme  were  put  into  execution  it  might 
be  by  some  one  else;  for,  extraordinary  as  it  was,  he  was  not 
absolutely  certain  of  its  success.  He  was  not  sure  of  Donna 
Tullia’s  discretion,  either,  until  by  a  judicious  withholding  of 
the  secret  he  had  given  her  a  sufficient  idea  of  its  importance. 
But  on  mature  reflection  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  even 
if  she  possessed  the  information  he  was  able  to  give,  she  would 
not  dare  to  mention  it,  nor  even  to  hint  at  it. 

The  grey  light  of  Ash- Wednesday  morning  broke  over  Rome, 


SARACINESCA. 


203 


and  stole  through  the  windows  of  Giovanni  Saracinesca’s  bed¬ 
room.  Giovanni  had  not  slept  much,  but  his  restlessness  was 
due  rather  to  his  gladness  at  having  performed  the  last  of  his 
social  duties  than  to  any  disturbance  of  mind.  All  night  he 
lay  planning  what  he  should  do, — how  he  might  reach  his  place 
in  the  mountains  by  a  circuitous  route,  leaving  the  general  im¬ 
pression  that  he  was  abroad — and  how,  when  at  last  he  had  got 
to  Saracinesca  unobserved,  he  would  revel  in  the  solitude  and 
in  the  thought  of  being  within  half  a  day’s  journey  of  Corona 
d’Astrardente.  He  was  willing  to  take  a  great  deal  of  trouble, 
for  he  did  not  wish  people  to  know  his  whereabouts;  he  would 
not  have  it  said  that  he  had  gone  into  the  country  to  be  near 
Corona  and  to  see  her  every  day,  as  would  certainly  be  said  if 
his  real  movements  were  discovered.  Accordingly,  he  fulfilled 
his  programme  to  the  letter.  He  left  Rome  on  the  afternoon 
of  Ash- Wednesday  for  Florence;  there  he  visited  several  ac¬ 
quaintances  who,  he  knew,  would  write  to  their  friends  in  Rome 
of  his  appearance;  from  Florence  he  went  to  Paris,  and  gave 
out  that  he  was  going  upon  a  shooting  expedition  in  the  Arctic 
regions,  as  soon  as  the  weather  was  warm  enough.  As  he  was 
well  known  for  a  sportsman  and  a  traveller,  this  statement 
created  no  suspicion;  and  when  he  finally  left  Paris,  the  news¬ 
papers  and  the  gossips  all  said  he  had  gone  to  Copenhagen  on 
his  way  to  the  far  north.  In  due  time  the  statement  reached 
Rome,  and  it  was  supposed  that  society  had  lost  sight  of  Gio¬ 
vanni  Saracinesca  for  at  least  eight  months.  It  was  thought 
that  he  had  acted  with  great  delicacy  in  absenting  himself;  he 
would  thus  allow  the  first  months  of  Corona’s  mourning  to 
pass  before  formally  presenting  himself  to  society  as  her  suitor. 
Considering  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case,  there  would 
be  nothing  improper,  from  a  social  point  of  view,  in  his  marry¬ 
ing  Corona  at  the  expiration  of  a  year  after  her  husband’s 
death.  Of  course  he  would  marry  her;  there  was  no  doubt  of 
that — he  had  been  in  love  with  her  so  long,  and  now  she  was 
both  free  and  rich.  No  one  suspected  that  Giovanni,  instead 
of  being  in  Scandinavia,  was  quietly  established  at  Saracinesca, 
a  day’s  journey  from  Rome,  busying  himself  with  the  manage¬ 
ment  of  the  estate,  and  momentarily  satisfied  in  feeling  himself 
so  near  the  woman  he  loved. 

Donna  Tullia  could  hardly  wait  until  the  day  when  Del 
Ferice  was  coming  to  dinner:  she  was  several  times  on  the 
point  of  writing  a  note  to  ask  him  to  come  at  once.  But  she 
wisely  refrained,  guessing  that  the  more  she  pressed  him  the 
more  difficulties  he  would  make.  At  last  he  came,  looking  pale 
and  worn — interesting,  as  Donna  Tullia  would  have  expressed 
it.  The  old  Countess  talked  a  great  deal  during  dinner;  but 
as  she  was  too  deaf  to  hear  more  than  a  quarter  of  what  was 


204 


SAKACINESCA. 


said  by  the  others,  the  conversation  was  not  interesting.  When 
the  meal  was  over,  she  established  herself  in  a  comfortable 
chair  in  the  little  sitting-room,  and  took  a  book.  After  a  few 
minutes,  Donna  Tullia  suggested  to  Del  Ferice  that  they 
should  go  into  the  drawing-room.  She  had  received  some  new 
waltz-music  from  Vienna  which  she  wanted  to  look  over,  and 
Ugo  might  help  her.  She  was  not  a  musician,  but  was  fond  of 
a  cheerful  noise,  and  played  upon  the  piano  with  the  average 
skill  of  a  well-educated  young  woman  of  the  world.  Of  course 
the  doors  were  left  open  between  the  drawing-room  and  the 
boudoir,  where  the  Countess  dozed  over  her  book  and  presently 
fell  asleep. 

Donna  Tullia  sat  at  the  grand  piano,  and  made  Del  Ferice 
sit  beside  her.  She  struck  a  few  chords,  and  played  a  frag¬ 
ment  of  dance-music. 

“  Of  course  you  have  heard  that  Don  Giovanni  is  gone  ?  ”  she 
asked,  carelessly.  “ I  suppose  he  is  gone  to  Saracinesca;  they 
say  there  is  a  very  good  road  between  that  and  Astrardente.” 

“  I  should  think  he  would  have  more  decency  than  to  pursue 
the  Duchessa  in  the  first  month  of  her  mourning,”  answered 
Del  Ferice,  resting  one  arm  upon  the  piano,  and  supporting  his 
pale  face  with  his  hand  as  he  watched  Donna  Tullia’s  fingers 
move  upon  the  keys. 

“  Why  ?  He  does  not  care  what  people  say — why  should  he  ? 
He  will  marry  her  when  the  year  is  out.  Why  should  he  care  ?  ” 

“He  can  never  marry  her  unless  I  choose  to  allow  it,”  said 
Del  Ferice,  quietly. 

“  So  you  told  me  the  other  night,”  returned  Donna  Tullia. 
“  But  you  will  allow  him,  of  course.  Besides,  you  could  not 
stop  it,  after  all.  I  do  not  believe  that  you  could.”  She 
leaned  far  back  in  her  chair,  her  hands  resting  upon  the  keys 
without  striking  them,  and  she  looked  at  Del  Ferice  with  a 
sweet  smile.  There  was  a  moments  pause. 

“  I  have  decided  to  tell  you  something,”  he  said  at  last, 
“upon  one  condition.” 

“Why  make  conditions?”  asked  Donna  Tullia,  trying  to 
conceal  her  excitement. 

“  Only  one,  that  of  secrecy.  Will  you  promise  never  to  men¬ 
tion  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  without  previously  consulting 
me  ?  I  do  not  mean  a  common  promise ;  I  mean  it  to  be  an 
oath.”  He  spoke  very  earnestly.  “  This  is  a  very  serious 
matter.  We  are  playing  with  fire  and  with  life  and  death. 
You  must  give  me  some  guarantee  that  you  will  be  secret.” 

His  manner  impressed  Donna  Tullia;  she  had  never  seen 
him  so  much  in  earnest  in  her  life. 

“  I  will  promise  in  any  way  you  please,”  she  said. 

“  Then  say  this,”  he  answered.  “  Say,  ‘  I  swear  and  solemnly 


SAKACItfESCA. 


205 


bind  myself  that  I  will  faithfully  keep  the  secret  about  to  be 
committed  to  me;  and  that  if  I  fail  to  keep  it  I  will  atone  by 
immediately  marrying  Ugo  del  Ferice - 

“  That  is  absurd  !  ”  cried  Donna  Tullia,  starting  back  from 
him.  He  did  not  heed  her. 

« <  And  I  take  to  witness  of  this  oath  the  blessed  memory  of 
my  mother,  the  hope  of  the  salvation  of  my  soul,  and  this  relic 
of  the  True  Cross/  ”  He  pointed  to  the  locket  she  wore  at  her 
neck,  which  she  had  often  told  him  contained  the  relic  he  men¬ 
tioned. 

(S  It  is  impossible  !  ”  she  cried  again.  “I  cannot  swear  so 
solemnly  about  such  a  matter.  I  cannot  promise  to  marry  you.” 

“  Then  it  is  because  you  cannot  promise  to  keep  my  secret,” 
he  answered  calmly.  He  knew  her  very  well,  and  he  believed 
that  she  would  not  break  such  an  oath  as  he  had  dictated, 
under  any  circumstances.  He  did  not  choose  to  risk  anything 
by  her  indiscretion.  Donna  Tullia  hesitated,  seeing  that  he 
was  firm.  She  was  tortured  with  curiosity  beyond  all  en¬ 
durance. 

“  X  am  only  promising  to  marry  you  in  case  I  reveal  the 
secret  ?  ”  she  asked.  He  bowed  assent.  “  So  that  I  am  really 
only  promising  to  be  silent?  Well,  I  cannot  understand  why 
it  should  be  solemn ;  but  if  you  wish  it  so,  I  will  do  it.  What 
are  the  words  ?  ” 

He  repeated  them  slowly,  and  she  followed  him.  He  watched 
her  at  every  word,  to  be  sure  she  overlooked  nothing. 

“  I,  Tullia  Mayer,  swear  and  solemnly  bind  myself  that  I 
will  faithfully  keep  the  secret  about  to  be  committed  to  me; 
and  that  if  I  fail  to  keep  it,  I  will  atone  by  immediately  marry- 
ing  Ugo  del  Ferice” — her  voice  trembled  nervously:  “and  I 
take  to  witness  of  this  oath  the  blessed  memory  of  my  mother, 
the  hope  of  the  salvation  of  my  soul,  and  this  relic  of  the  True 
Cross.”  At  the  last  words  she  took  the  locket  in  her  fingers. . 

“  You  understand  that  you  have  promised  to  marry  me  if 
you  reveal  my  secret?  You  fully  understand  that?”  asked 
Del  Ferice. 

“  I  understand  it,”  she  answered  hurriedly,  as  though  ashamed 
of  what  she  had  done.  “And  now,  the  secret,”  she  added 
eagerly,  feeling  that  she  had  undergone  a  certain  humiliation 
for  the  sake  of  what  she  so  much  coveted. 

“  Don  Giovanni  cannot  marry  the  Duchessa  d'Astrardente, 
because” — he  paused  a  moment  to  give  full  weight  to  his 
statement — “  because  Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca  is  married 
already.” 

“  What  !  ”  cried  Donna  Tullia,  starting  from  her  chair  m 
amazement  at  the  astounding  news. 

“It  is  quite  true,”  said  Del  Ferice,  with  a  quiet  smile. 


206 


SARACINESCA. 


“  Calm  yourself  ;  it  is  quite  true.  I  know  what  you  are  think¬ 
ing  of — all  Rome  thought  he  was  going  to  marry  you.” 

Donna  Tullia  was  overcome  by  the  strangeness  of  the  situa¬ 
tion.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  for  a  moment  as  she  leaned 
forward  over  the  piano.  Then  she  suddenly  looked  up. 

“What  a  hideous  piece  of  villany!”  she  exclaimed,  in  a 
stifled  voice.  Then  slowly  recovering  from  the  first  shock  of 
the  intelligence,  she  looked  at  Del  Ferice;  she  was  almost  as 
pale  as  he.  “  What  proof  have  you  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“I  have  the  attested  copy  of  the  banns  published  by  the 
priest  who  married  them.  That  is  evidence.  Moreover,  the 
real  book  of  banns  exists,  and  Giovanni's  name  is  upon  the 
parish  register.  I  have  also  a  copy  of  the  certificate  of  the 
civil  marriage,  which  is  signed  by  Giovanni  himself.” 

“  Tell  me  more,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  eagerly.  “  How  did  you 
find  it  ?” 

“It  is  very  simple,”  answered  Del  Ferice.  “You  may  go 
and  see  for  yourself,  if  you  do  not  mind  making  a  short 
journey.  Last  summer  I  was  wandering  a  little  for  my 
health's  sake,  as  I  often  do,  and  I  chanced  to  be  in  the  town  of 
Aquila — you  know,  the  capital  of  Abruzzi.  One  day  I  hap¬ 
pened  to  go  into  the  sacristy  of  one  of  the  parish  churches  to 
see  some  pictures  which  are  hung  there.  There  had  been  a 
marriage  service  performed,  and  as  the  sacristan  moved  about 
explaining  the  pictures,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  an  open  book 
which  looked  like  a  register  of  some  kind.  I  idly  asked  him 
what  it  was,  and  he  showed  it  to  me;  it  was  amusing  to  look  at 
the  names  of  the  people,  and  I  turned  over  the  leaves  curiously. 
Suddenly  my  attention  was  arrested  by  a  name  I  knew — 'Gio¬ 
vanni  Saracinesca,'  written  clearly  across  the  page,  and  below 
it,  ‘  Felice  Baldi ' — the  woman  he  had  married.  The  date  of 
the  marriage  was  the  19th  of  June,  1863.  You  remember,  per¬ 
haps,  that  in  that  summer,  in  fact  during  the  whole  of  that 
year,  Don  Giovanni  was  supposed  to  be  absent  upon  his  famous 
shooting  expedition  in  Canada,  about  which  he  talks  so  much. 
It  appears,  then,  that  two  years  ago,  instead  of  being  in  America, 
he  was  living  in  Aquila,  married  to  Felice  Baldi — probably 
some  pretty  peasant  girl.  I  started  at  the  sight  of  the  names. 
I  got  permission  to  have  an  attested  copy  of  it  made  by  a 
notary.  I  found  the  priest  who  had  married  them,  but  he 
could  not  remember  the  couple.  The  man,  he  said,  was  dark, 
he  was  sure  ;  the  woman,  he  thought,  had  been  fair.  He  mar¬ 
ried  so  many  people  in  a  year.  These  were  not  natives  of 
Aquila;  they  had  apparently  come  there  from  the  country — 
perhaps  had  met.  The  banns — yes,  he  had  the  book  of  banns; 
he  had  also  the  register  of  marriages  from  which  he  sometimes 
issued  certified  extracts.  He  was  a  good  old  man,  and  seemed 


SARACISTESCA. 


207 


ready  to  oblige  me;  but  his  memory  was  very  defective.  He 
allowed  me  to  take  notary’s  copies  of  the  banns  and  the  entry 
in  the  list,  as  well  as  of  the  register.  Then  I  went  to  the 
office  of  the  Stato  Civile.  You  know  that  people  do  not  sign 
the  register  in  the  church  themselves;  the  names  are  written 
down  by  the  priest.  I  wanted  to  see  the  signatures,  and  the 
book  of  civil  marriages  was  shown  to  me. 

“  The  handwriting  was  Giovanni’s,  I  am  sure — larger,  and  a 
little  less  firm,  but  distinguishable  at  a  glance.  I  took  the 
copies  for  curiosity,  and  never  said  anything  about  it,  but  I  have 
kept  them.  That  is  the  history.  Do  you  see  how  serious  a 
matter  it  is  ?  ” 

“  Indeed,  yes,”  answered  Donna  Tullia,  who  had  listened  with 
intense  interest  to  the  story.  “  But  what  could  have  induced 
him  to  marry  that  woman  ?  ” 

“  One  of  those  amiable  eccentricities  peculiar  to  his  family,” 
replied  Del  Ferice,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  “  The  interesting 
thing  would  be  to  discover  what  became  of  Felice  Baldi — Donna 
Felice  Saracinesca,  as  I  suppose  she  has  a  right  to  be  called.” 

“Let  us  find  her — Giovanni’s  wife,”  exclaimed  Donna  Tullia, 
eagerly.  “  Where  can  she  be  ?  ” 

“  Who  knows  ?”  ejaculated  Del  Ferice.  “  I  would  be  curious 
to  see  her.  The  name  of  her  native  village  is  given,  and  the 
names  of  her  parents.  Giovanni  described  himself  in  the  paper 
as  ‘  of  Naples,  a  landholder,’  and  omitted  somehow  the  details 
of  his  parentage.  Nothing  could  be  more  vague;  everybody  is 
a  landholder,  from  the  wretched  peasant  who  cultivates  one  acre 
to  their  high-and-mightinesses  the  Princes  of  Saracinesca. 
Perhaps  by  going  to  the  village  mentioned  some  information 
might  be  obtained.  He  probably  left  her  sufficiently  provided 
for,  and,  departing  on  pretence  of  a  day’s  journey,  never  re¬ 
turned.  He  is  a  perfectly  unscrupulous  man,  and  thinks  no  more 
of  this  mad  scrape  than  of  shooting  a  chamois  in  the  Tyrol.  He 
knows  she  can  never  find  him — never  guessed  who  he  really  was.” 

“Perhaps  she  is  dead,”  suggested  Donna  Tullia,  her  face 
suddenly  growing  grave. 

“  Why  ?  He  would  not  have  taken  the  trouble  to  kill  her— 
a  peasant  girl  in  the  Abruzzi!  He  would  have  had  no  difficulty 
in  leaving  her,  and  she  is  probably  alive  and  well  at  the  present 
moment,  perhaps  the  mother  of  the  future  Prince  Saracinesca 
— who  can  tell  ?  ” 

“But  do  you  not  see,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  “that  unless  you 
have  proof  that  she  is  alive,  we  have  no  hold  upon  him  ?  He 
may  acknowledge  the  whole  thing,  and  calmly  inform  us  that 
she  is  dead.” 

“That  is  true;  but  even  then  he  must  show  that  she  came  to 
a  natural  end  and  was  buried.  Believe  me,  Giovanni  would 


208 


SARACINESCA. 


relinquish  all  intentions  of  marrying  the  Astrardente  rather 
than  have  this  scandalous  story  published.” 

“  I  would  like  to  tax  him  with  it  in  a  point-blank  question, 
and  watch  his  face,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  fiercely. 

“  Remember  your  oath,”  said  Del  Ferice.  “  But  he  is  gone 
now.  You  will  not  meet  him  for  some  months.” 

“  Tell  me,  how  could  you  make  use  of  this  knowledge,  if  you 
really  wanted  to  prevent  his  marriage  with  the  Astrardente  ?  ” 

“  I  would  advise  you  to  go  to  her  and  state  the  case.  You 
need  mention  nobody.  Any  one  who  chooses  may  go  to  Aquila 
and  examine  the  registers.  I  think  that  you  could  convey  the 
information  to  her  with  as  much  command  of  language  as  would 
be  necessary.” 

“  I  daresay  I  could,”  she  answered,  between  her  teeth.  “  What 
a  strange  chance  it  was  that  brought  that  register  under  your 
hand ! ” 

“  Heaven  sends  opportunities,”  said  Del  Ferice,  devoutly; 
“  it  is  for  man  to  make  good  use  of  them.  Who  knows  but 
what  you  may  make  a  brilliant  use  of  this  ?  ” 

“  I  cannot,  since  I  am  bound  by  my  promise,”  said  Donna 
Tullia. 

“  No ;  I  am  sure  you  will  not  think  of  doing  it.  But  then,  we 
might  perhaps  agree  that  circumstances  made  it  advisable  to  act. 
Many  months  must  pass  before  he  can  think  of  offering  himself 
to  her.  It  will  be  time  enough  to  consider  the  matter  then — to 
consider  whether  we  should  be  justified  in  raising  such  a  terrible 
scandal,  in  causing  so  much  unhappiness  to  an  innocent  woman 
like  the  Duchessa,  and  to  a  worthless  man  like  Don  Giovanni. 
Think  what  a  disgrace  it  would  be  to  the  Saracinesca  to  have  it 
made  public  that  Giovanni  was  openly  engagedto  marry  a  great 
heiress  while  already  secretly  married  to  a  peasant  woman !  ” 

“It  would  indeed  be  horrible,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  with  a 
disagreeable  look  in  her  blue  eyes.  “  Perhaps  we  should  not 
even  think  of  it,”  she  added,  turning  over  the  leaves'-of  the 
music  upon  the  piano.  Then  suddenly  she  added,  “Do  you 
know  that  you  have  put  me  in  a  dreadful  position  by  exacting 
that  promise  from  me  ?  ” 

“  No,”  said  Del  Ferice,  quietly.  “  You  wanted  to  hear  the 
secret.  You  have  heard  it.  You  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
keep  it  to  yourself.” 

“  That  is  precisely - ”  She  checked  herself,  and  struck  a 

loud  chord  upon  the  instrument.  She  had  turned  from  Del 
Ferice,  and  could  not  see  the  smile  upon  his  face,  which  flickered 
across  the  pale  features  and  vanished  instantly. 

“  Think  no  more  about  it,”  he  said  pleasantly.  “  It  is  so  easy 
to  forget  such  stories  when  one  resolutely  puts  them  out  of 
one’s  mind,” 


SARACINESCA. 


209 


Donna  Tullia  smiled  bitterly,  and  was  silent.  She  began 
playing  from  the  sheet  before  her,  with  indifferent  accuracy,  but 
with  more  than  sufficient  energy.  Del  Ferice  sat  patiently  by 
her  side,  turning  over  the  leaves,  and  glancing  from  time  to  time 
at  her  face,  which  he  really  admired  exceedingly.  He  belonged 
to  the  type  of  pale  and  somewhat  phlegmatic  men  who  frequently 
fall  in  love  with  women  of  sanguine  complexion  and  robust 
appearance.  Donna  Tullia  was  a  fine  type  of  this  class,  and 
was  called  handsome,  though  she  did  not  compare  well  with 
women  of  less  pretension  to  beauty,  but  more  delicacy  and 
refinement.  Del  Ferice  admired  her  greatly,  however;  and,  as 
has  been  said,  he  admired  her  fortune  even  more.  He  saw  him¬ 
self  gradually  approaching  the  goal  of  his  intentions,  and  as  he 
neared  the  desired  end  he  grew  more  and  more  cautious.  He 
had  played  one  of  his  strongest  cards  that  night,  and  he  was 
content  to  wait  and  let  matters  develop  quietly,  without  any 
more  pushing  from  him.  The  seed  would  grow,  there  was  no 
fear  of  that,  and  his  position  was  strong.  He  could  wait  quietly 
for  the  result. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  excused  himself  upon  the  plea 
that  he  was  still  only  convalescent,  and  was  unable  to  bear  the 
fatigue  of  late  hours.  Donna  Tullia  did  not  press  him  to  stay, 
for  she  wished  to  be  alone;  and  when  he  was  gone  she  sat  long 
at  the  open  piano,  pondering  upon  what  she  had  done,  and  even 
more  upon  what  she  had  escaped  doing.  It  was  a  hideous 
thought  that  if  Giovanni,  in  all  that  long  winter,  had  asked  her 
to  be  his  wife,  she  would  readily  have  consented ;  it  was  fearful 
to  think  what  her  position  would  have  been  towards  Del  Ferice, 
who  would  have  been  able  by  a  mere  word  to  annul  her  marriage 
by  proving  the  previous  one  at  Aquila.  People  do  not  trifle 
with  such  accusations,  and  he  certainly  knew  what  he  was 
doing;  she  would  have  been  bound  hand  and  foot.  Or  suppos¬ 
ing  that  Del  Ferice  had  died  of  the  wound  he  received  in  the 
duel,  and  his  papers  had  been  ransacked  by  his  heirs,  whoever 
they  might  be — these  attested  documents  would  have  become 
public  property.  What  a  narrow  escape  Giovanni  had  had! 
And  she  herself,  too,  how  nearly  had  she  been  involved  in  his 
ruin!  She  liked  to  think  that  he  had  almost  offered  himself  to 
her;  it  flattered  her,  although  she  now  hated  him  so  cordially. 
She  could  not  help  admiring  Del  Ferice's  wonderful  discretion 
in  so  long  concealing  a  piece  of  scandal  that  would  have  shaken 
Roman  society  to  its  foundations,  and  she  trembled  when  she 
thought  what  would  happen  if  she  herself  were  ever  tempted  to 
reveal  what  she  had  heard.  Del  Ferice  was  certainly  a  man  of 
genius — so  quiet,  and  yet  possessing  such  weapons;  there  was 
some  generosity  about  him  too,  or  he  would  have  revenged  him¬ 
self  for  his  wound  by  destroying  Giovanni's  reputation.  She 


210 


SARACIiTESCA. 


considered  whether  she  could  have  kept  her  counsel  so  well  in 
his  place.  After  all,  as  he  had  said,  the  moment  for  using  the 
documents  had  not  yet  come,  for  hitherto  Giovanni  had  never 
proposed  to  marry  any  one.  Perhaps  this  secret  wedding  in 
Aquila  explained  his  celibacy;  Del  Ferice  had  perhaps  misjudged 
him  in  saying  that  he  was  unscrupulous;  he  had  perhaps  left 
his  peasant  wife,  repenting  of  his  folly,  but  it  was  perhaps  on 
her  account  that  he  had  never  proposed  to  marry  Donna  Tullia; 
he  had,  then,  only  been  amusing  himself  with  Corona.  That 
all  seemed  likely  enough — so  likely,  that  it  heightened  the  cer¬ 
tainty  of  Del  Ferice’s  information. 

A  few  days  later,  as  Giovanni  had  intended,  news  began  to 
reach  Rome  that  he  had  been  in  Florence,  and  was  actually  in 
Paris;  then  it  was  said  that  he  was  going  upon  a  shooting 
expedition  somewhere  in  the  far  north  during  the  summer.  It 
was  like  him,  and  in  accordance  with  his  tastes.  He  hated  the 
quiet  receptions  at  the  great  houses  during  Lent,  to  which,  if 
he  remained  in  Rome,  he  was  obliged  to  go.  He  naturally  es¬ 
caped  when  he  could.  But  there  was  no  escape  for  Donna 
Tullia,  and  after  all  she  managed  to  extract  some  amusement 
from  these  gatherings.  She  was  the  acknowledged  centre  of 
the  more  noisy  set,  and  wherever  she  went,  people  who  wanted 
to  be  amused,  and  were  willing  to  amuse  each  other,  congre- 

§ated  around  her.  On  one  of  these  occasions  she  met  old 
aracinesca.  He  did  not  go  out  much  since  his  son  had  left; 
but  he  seemed  cheerful  enough,  and  as  he  liked  Madame  Mayer, 
for  some  inscrutable  reason,  she  rather  liked  him.  Moreover, 
her  interest  in  Giovanni,  though  now  the  very  reverse  of  affec¬ 
tionate,  made  her  anxious  to  know  something  of  his  movements. 

“  You  must  be  lonely  since  Don  Giovanni  has  gone  upon  his 
travels  again,”  she  said. 

“  That  is  the  reason  I  go  out,”  said  the  PrinceT  “  It  is  not 
very  gay,  but  it  is  better  than  nothing.  It  suggests  cold  meat 
served  up  after  the  dessert;  but  when  people  are  hungry,  the 
order  of  their  food  is  not  of  much  importance.” 

“Is  there  any  news,  Prince?  I  want  to  be  amused.” 
“News?  No.  The  world  is  at  peace,  and  consequently 
given  over  to  sin,  as  it  mostly  is  when  it  is  resting  from  a  fit  of 
violence.” 

“You  seem  to  be  inclined  to  moralities  this  evening,”  said 
Donna  Tullia,  smiling,  and  gently  swaying  the  red  fan  she 
always  carried. 

“  Am  I  ?  Then  I  am  growing  old,  I  suppose.  It  is  the 
privilege  of  old  age  to  censure  in  others  what  it  is  no  longer 
young  enough  to  praise  in  itself.  It  is  a  bad  thing  to  grow  old, 
but  it  makes  people  good,  or  makes  them  think  they  are,  which 
in  their  own  eyes  is  precisely  the  same  thing.” 


SARACINESCA. 


211 


"  How  delightfully  cynical !  ” 

"Doggish?"  inquired  the  Prince,  with  a  laugh.  "I  have 
heard  it  said  by  scholars,  that  cynical  means  doggish  in  Greek. 
The  fable  of  the  dog  in  the  horse's  manger  was  invented  to  define 
the  real  cynic — the  man  who  neither  enjoys  life  himself  nor  will 
allow  other  people  to  enjoy  it.  I  am  not  such  a  man.  I  hope 
you,  for  instance,  will  enjoy  everything  that  comes  in  your  way." 

"  Even  the  cold  meat  after  the  dessert  which  you  spoke  of 
just  now?"  asked  Donna  Tullia.  "Thank  you — I  will  try; 
perhaps  you  can  help  me." 

"  My  son  despised  it,"  said  Saracinesca.  "  He  is  gone  in 
search  of  fresh  pastures  of  sweets." 

“  Leaving  you  behind." 

“  Somebody  once  said  that  the  wisest  thing  a  son  could  do 
was  to  get  rid  of  his  father  as  soon  as  possible - " 

"Then  Don  Giovanni  is  a  wise  man,"  returned  Donna  Tullia. 

"  Perhaps.  However,  he  asked  me  to  accompany  him." 

"  You  refused  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  Such  expeditions  are  good  enough  for  boys.  I 
dislike  Florence,  I  am  not  especially  fond  of  Paris,  and  I  detest 
the  North  Pole.  I  suppose  you  have  seen  from  the  papers 
that  he  is  going  in  that  direction  ?  It  is  like  him,  he  hankers 
after  originality,  I  suppose.  Being  born  in  the  south,  he 
naturally  goes  to  the  extreme  north." 

“  He  will  write  you  very  interesting  letters,  I  should  think," 
remarked  Donna  Tullia.  "  Is  he  a  good  correspondent  ?  " 

"  Remarkably,  for  he  never  gives  one  any  trouble.  He  sends 
his  address  from  time  to  time,  and  draws  frequently  on  his 
banker.  His  letters  are  not  so  full  of  interest  as  might  be 
thought,  as  they  rarely  extend  over  five  lines;  but  on  the  other 
hand  it  does  not  take  long  to  read  them,  which  is  a  blessing." 

"You  seem  to  be  an  affectionate  parent,"  said  Donna  Tullia, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  If  you  measure  affection  by  the  cost  of  postage-stamps,  you 
have  a  right  to  be  sarcastic.  If  you  measure  it  in  any  other 
way,  you  are  wrong.  I  could  not  help  loving  any  one  so  like 
myself  as  my  son.  It  would  show  a  detestable  lack  of  appreci¬ 
ation  of  my  own  gifts." 

"  I  do  not  think  Don  Giovanni  so  very  like  you,"  said  Donna 
Tullia,  thoughtfully. 

“  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  him  so  well  as  I  do,"  remarked 
the  Prince.  "  Where  do  you  see  the  greatest  difference  ?  " 

"I  think  you  talk  better,  and  I  think  you  are  more — not 
exactly  more  honest,  perhaps,  but  more  straightforward." 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you,"  said  old  Saracinesca,  quickly. 
“  There  is  no  one  alive  who  can  say  they  ever  knew  Giovanni 
approach  in  the  most  innocent  way  to  a  distortion  of  truth.  I 


212 


SAHACUiTESCA. 


daresay  you  have  discovered,  however,  that  he  is  reticent;  he 
can  hold  his  tongue;  he  is  no  chatterer,  no  parrot,  my  son.” 

“Indeed  he  is  not,”  answered  Donna  Tullia,  and  the  reply 
pacified  the  old  man ;  but  she  herself  was  thinking  what  su¬ 
preme  reticence  Giovanni  had  shown  in  the  matter  of  his  mar¬ 
riage,  and  she  wondered  whether  the  Prince  had  ever  heard  of 
it. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Anastase  Gouache  worked  hard  at  the  Cardinal’s  portrait,  and 
at  the  same  time  did  his  best  to  satisfy  Donna  Tullia.  The 
latter,  indeed,  was  not  easily  pleased,  and  Gouache  found  it 
hard  to  instil  into  his  representation  of  her  the  precise  amount 
of  poetry  she  required,  without  doing  violence  to  his  own  artis¬ 
tic  sense  of  fitness.  But  the  other  picture  progressed  rapidly. 
The  Cardinal  was  a  restless  man,  and  after  the  first  two  or 
three  sittings,  desired  nothing  so  much  as  to  be  done  with  them 
altogether.  Anastase  amused  him,  it  is  true,  and  the  statesman 
soon  perceived  that  he  had  made  a  conquest  of  the  young  man’s 
mind,  and  that,  as  Giovanni  Saracinesca  had  predicted,  he  had 
helped  Gouache  to  come  to  a  decision.  He  was  not  prepared, 
however,  for  the  practical  turn  that  decision  immediately  took, 
and  he  was  just  beginning  to  wish  the  sittings  at  an  end  when 
Anastase  surprised  him  by  a  very  startling  announcement. 

As  usual,  they  were  in  the  Cardinal’s  study;  the  statesman 
was  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  Gouache  was  working  with  all 
his  might.  _ 

“  I  have  made  up  my  mind,”  said  the  latter,  suddenly. 

“  Concerning  what,  my  friend  ?  ”  inquired  the  great  man, 
rather  absently. 

“  Concerning  everything,  Eminence,”  answered  Gouache — 
“concerning  politics,  religion,  life,  death,  and  everything  else 
which  belongs  to  my  career.  I  am  going  to  enlist  with  the 
Zouaves.” 

The  Cardinal  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  broke 
into  a  low  laugh. 

“  Extremis  mails  extrema  remedia  !  ”  he  exclaimed. 

“  Precisely — aux  grands  maux  les  grands  remedes ,  as  we  say. 
I  am  going  to  join  the  Church  militant.  I  am  convinced  that 
it  is  the  best  thing  an  honest  man  can  do.  I  like  fighting,  and 
I  like  the  Church— therefore  I  will  fight  for  the  Church.” 

“  Very  good  logic,  indeed,”  answered  the  Cardinal.  But  he 
looked  at  Anastase,  and  marking  his  delicate  features  and  light 
frame,  he  almost  wondered  how  the  lad  would  look  in  the  garb 
of  a  soldier.  “  Very  good  logic;  but,  my  dear  Monsieur  Gou¬ 
ache,  what  is  to  become  of  your  art  ?  ” 


SARACINESCA. 


213 


“  I  shall  not  be  mounting  guard  all  day,  and  the  Zouaves  are 
allowed  to  live  in  their  own  lodgings.  I  will  live  in  my  studio, 
and  paint  when  I  am  not  mounting  guard.” 

“And  my  portrait?”  inquired  Cardinal  Antonelli,  much 
amused. 

“  Your  Eminence  will  doubtless  be  kind  enough  to  manage 
that  I  may  have  liberty  to  finish  it.” 

“  You  could  not  put  off  enlisting  for  a  week,  I  suppose  ?  ” 

Gouache  looked  annoyed ;  he  hated  the  idea  of  waiting. 

“  I  have  taken  too  long  to  make  up  my  mind  already,”  he 
replied.  “  I  must  make  the  plunge  at  once.  I  am  convinced 
— your  Eminence  has  convinced  me — that  I  have  been  very 
foolish.” 

“  I  certainly  never  intended  to  convince  you  of  that,”  re¬ 
marked  the  Cardinal,  with  a  smile. 

“  Very  foolish,”  repeated  Gouache,  not  heeding  the  interrup¬ 
tion.  “  I  have  talked  great  nonsense, — I  scarcely  know  why — 
perhaps  to  try  and  find  where  the  sense  really  lay.  I  have 
dreamed  so  many  dreams,  so  long,  that  I  sometimes  think  I  am 
morbid.  All  artists  are  morbid,  I  suppose.  It  is  better  to  do 
anything  active  than  to  lose  one’s  self  in  the  slums  of  a  sickly 
imagination.” 

“I  agree  with  you,”  answered  the  Cardinal;  “but  I  do  not 
think  you  suffered  from  a  sickly  imagination, — I  should  rather 
call  it  abundant  than  sickly.  Frankly,  I  should  be  sorry  to 
think  that  in  following  this  new  idea  you  were  in  any  way  in¬ 
juring  the  great  career  which,  I  am  sure,  is  before  you;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  a  greater  number  of 
young  men  would  follow  your  example.” 

“  Your  Eminence  approves,  then  ?  ” 

“  Do  you  think  you  will  make  a  good  soldier  ?  ” 

“  Other  artists  have  been  good  soldiers.  There  was  Cel¬ 
lini - ” 

“  Benvenuto  Cellini  said  he  made  a  good  soldier;  he  said  it 
himself,  but  his  reputation  for  veracity  in  other  matters  was 
doubtful,  to  say  the  least.  If  he  did  not  shoot  the  Connetable 
de  Bourbon,  it  is  very  certain  that  some  one  else  did.  Besides, 
a  soldier  in  our  times  should  be  a  very  different  kind  of  man 
from  the  self-armed  citizen  of  the  time  of  Clement  the  Eighth 
and  the  aforesaid  Connetable.  You  will  have  to  wear  a  uni¬ 
form  and  sleep  on  boards  in  a  guard-house;  you  will  have  to 
be  up  early  to  drill,  and  up  late  mounting  guard,  in  wind  and 
rain  and  cold.  It  is  hard  work;  I  do  not  believe  you  have  the 
constitution  for  it.  Nevertheless,  the  intention  is  good.  You 
can  try  it,  and  if  you  fall  ill  I  will  see  that  you  have  no  diffi¬ 
culty  in  returning  to  your  artist  life.” 

“  I  do  not  mean  to  give  it  up,”  replied  Gouache,  in  a  tone 


214 


SARACINESCA. 


of  conviction.  “  And  as  for  my  health,  I  am  as  strong  as  any 
one.” 

“  Perhaps,”  said  the  Cardinal,  doubtfully.  “  And  when  are 
you  going  to  join  the  corps  ?  ” 

“  In  about  an  hour,”  said  Gouache,  quietly. 

And  he  kept  his  word.  But  he  had  told  ng  one,  save  the 
Cardinal,  of  his  intention;  and  for  a  day  or  two,  though  he 
passed  many  acquaintances  in  the  street,  no  one  recognised 
Anastase  Gouache  in  the  handsome  young  soldier  with  his 
grey  Turco  uniform,  a  red  sash  round  his  slender  waist,  and  a 
small  kepi  set  jauntily  upon  one  side. 

It  was  one  of  the  phenomena  of  those  times.  Foreigners 
swarmed  in  Rome,  and  many  of  them  joined  the  cosmopolitan 
corps — gentlemen,  noblemen,  artists,  men  of  the  learned  pro¬ 
fessions,  adventurers,  duellists  driven  from  their  country  in  a 
temporary  exile,  enthusiasts,  strolling  Irishmen,  men  of  all 
sorts  and  conditions.  But,  take  them  all  in  all,  they  were  a 
fine  set  of  fellows,  who  set  no  value  whatever  on  their  lives, 
and  who,  as  a  whole,  fought  for  an  idea,  in  the  old  crusading 
spirit.  There  were  many  who,  like  Gouache,  joined  solely 
from  conviction;  and  there  were  few  instances  indeed  of  any 
who,  having  joined,  deserted.  It  often  happened  that  a 
stranger  came  to  Rome  for  a  mere  visit,  and  at  the  end  of 
a  month  surprised  his  friends  by  appearing  in  the  grey 
uniform.  You  had  met  him  the  night  before  at  a  ball  in 
the  ordinary  garb  of  civilisation,  covered  with  cotillon  favours, 
waltzing  like  a  madman;  the  next  morning  he  entered  the  Cafe 
de  Rome  in  a  braided  jacket  open  at  the  throat,  and  told  you 
he  was  a  soldier — a  private  soldier,  who  touched  his  cap  to 
every  corporal  of  the  French  infantry,  and  was  liable  to  be 
locked  up  for  twenty-four  hours  if  he  was  late  to  quarters. 

Donna  Tullia's  portrait  was  not  quite  finished,  and  Gouache 
had  asked  for  one  or  two  more  sittings.  Three  days  after  the 
artist  had  taken  his  great  resolution,  Madame  Mayer  and  Del 
Ferice  entered  his  studio.  He  had  had  no  difficulty  in  being 
at  liberty  at  the  hour  of  the  sitting,  and  had  merely  exchanged 
his  jacket  for  an  old  painting-coat,  not  taking  the  trouble  to 
divest  himself  of  the  remainder  of  his  uniform. 

“  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  ”  asked  Donna  Tullia, 
as  she  lifted  the  curtain  and  entered  the  studio.  He  had  kept 
out  of  her  way  during  the  past  few  days. 

“  Good  heavens.  Gouache!”  cried  Del  Ferice,  starting  back, 
as  he  caught  sight  of  the  artist's  grey  trousers  and  yellow 
gaiters.  “  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  comedy  ?  ” 

“  What  ?  ”  asked  Gouache,  coolly.  Then,  glancing  at  his  legs, 
he  answered,  “  Oh,  nothing.  I  have  turned  Zouave — that  is  all. 
Will  you  sit  down,  Donna  Tullia  ?  I  was  waiting  for  you.” 


SARACINESCA. 


215 


“  Turned  Zouave !”  exclaimed  Madame  Mayer  and  Del  Fe¬ 
nce  in  a  breath.  “  Turned  Zouave!  ” 

“Well?”  said  Gouache,  raising  his  eyebrows  and  enjoying 
their  surprise.  “  Well — why  not  ?  ” 

Del  Ferice  struck  a  fine  attitude,  and,  laying  one  hand  upon 
Donna  Tullia's  arm,  whispered  hoarsely  in  her  ear — 

“  Siam,o  traditi — we  are  betrayed!”  he  said.  Whereupon 
Donna  Tullia  turned  a  little  pale. 

“  Betrayed!”  she  repeated,  “  and  by  Gouache!” 

Gouache  laughed,  as  he  drew  out  the  battered  old  carved 
chair  on  which  Madame  Mayer  was  accustomed  to  sit  when  he 
painted. 

“  Calm  yourself,  Madame,”  he  said.  “  I  have  not  the  least 
intention  of  betraying  you.  I  have  made  a  counter-revolution 
— but  I  am  perfectly  frank.  I  will  not  tell  of  the  ferocious 
deeds  I  have  heard  discussed.” 

Del  Ferice  scowled  and  drew  back,  partly  acting,  partly  in 
earnest.  It  lay  in  his  schemes  to  make  Donna  Tullia  believe 
herself  involved  in  a  genuine  plot,  and  from  this  point  of  view 
he  felt  that  he  must  pretend  the  greatest  horror  and  surprise. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  knew  that  Gouache  had  been  painting 
the  Cardinal's  portrait,  and  guessed  that  the  statesman  had 
acquired  a  strong  influence  over  the  artist's  mind — an  influence 
which  was  already  showing  itself  in  a  way  that  looked  danger¬ 
ous.  It  had  never  struck  him  until  quite  lately  that  Anastase, 
a  republican  by  descent  and  conviction,  could  suddenly  step 
into  the  reactionary  camp. 

“  Pardon  me,  Donna  Tullia,”  said  Ugo,  in  serious  tones, 
“  pardon  me — but  I  think  we  should  do  well  to  leave  Monsieur 
Gouache  to  the  contemplation  of  his  new  career.  This  is  no 
place  for  us — the  company  of  traitors - ” 

“  Look  here,  Del  Ferice,”  said  Gouache,  suddenly  going  up 
to  him  and  looking  him  in  the  face, — “do  you  seriously  believe 
that  anything  you  have  ever  said  in  this  room  is  worth  betray¬ 
ing  ?  or,  if  you  do,  do  you  really  think  that  I  would  betray  it  ?  ” 

“  Bah !  ”  exclaimed  Donna  Tullia,  interposing,  “  it  is  non¬ 
sense!  Gouache  is  a  gentleman,  of  course — and  besides,  I  mean 
to  have  my  portrait,  politics  or  no  politics.” 

With  this  round  statement  Donna  Tullia  sat  down,  and  Del 
Ferice  had  no  choice  but  to  follow  her  example.  He  was  pro¬ 
foundly  disgusted,  but  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  would  be 
hopeless  to-  attempt  to  dissuade  Madame  Mayer  when  she  had 
once  made  up  her  mind. 

“  And  now  you  can  tell  us  all  about  it,”  said  Donna  Tullia. 
“  What,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  senseless,  has  induced  you  to 
join  the  Zouaves  ?  It  really  makes  me  very  nervous  to  see  you.” 

“  That  lends  poetry  to  your  expression,”  interrupted  Gouache. 


216 


SARACINESCA. 


“  I  wish  you  were  always  nervous.  You  really  want  to  know 
why  I  am  a  Zouave  ?  It  is  very  simple.  You  must  know  that 
I  always  follow  my  impulses.” 

“  Impulses !  ”  ejaculated  Del  Ferice,  moodily. 

“  Yes;  because  my  impulses  are  always  good, — whereas  when 
I  reflect  much,  my  judgment  is  always  bad.  I  felt  a  strong 
impulse  to  wear  the  grey  uniform,  so  I  walked  into  the  recruit¬ 
ing  office  and  wrote  my  name  down.” 

“  I  feel  a  strong  impulse  to  walk  out  of  your  studio,  Mon¬ 
sieur  Gouache,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  with  a  rather  nervous  laugh. 

“  Then  allow  me  to  tell  you  that,  whereas  my  impulses  are 
good,  yours  are  not,”  replied  Anastase,  quietly  painting.  “  Be¬ 
cause  I  have  a  new  dress - ” 

“  And  new  convictions,”  interrupted  Del  Ferice;  “you  who 
were  always  arguing  about  convictions !  ” 

“I  had  none;  that  is  the  reason  I  argued  about  them.  I 
have  plenty  now — I  argue  no  longer.” 

“  You  are  wise,”  retorted  Ugo.  “  Those  you  have  got  will 
never  bear  discussion.” 

“  Excuse  me,”  answered  Gouache;  “  if  you  will  take  the  trouble 
to  be  introduced  to  his  Eminence  Cardinal  Antonelli - ” 

Donna  Tullia  held  up  her  hands  in  horror. 

“  That  horrible  man!  That  Mephistopheles!  ”  she  cried. 

“  That  Macchiavelli !  That  irrch-enemy  of  our  holy  Liberty !  ” 
exclaimed  Del  Ferice,  in  theatrical  tones. 

“  Exactly,”  answered  Gouache.  “  If  he  could  be  induced  to 
devote  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  his  valuable  time  to  talking  with 
you,  he  would  turn  your  convictions  round  his  finger.” 

“  This  is  too  much !  ”  cried  Del  Ferice,  angrily. 

“  I  think  it  is  very  amusing,”  said  Donna  Tullia.  “  What  a  pity 
that  all  Liberals  are  not  artists,  whom  his  Eminence  could  engage 
to  paint  his  portrait  and  be  converted  at  so  much  an  hour!  ” 

Gouache  smiled  quietly,  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

“  So  he  told  you  to  go  and  turn  Zouave,”  remarked  Donna 
Tullia,  after  a  pause,  “  and  you  submitted  like  a  lamb.” 

“  So  far  was  the  Cardinal  from  advising  me  to  turn  soldier, 
that  he  expressed  the  greatest  surprise  when  I  told  him  of  my 
intention,”  returned  Gouache,  rather  coldly. 

“  Indeed  it  is  enough  to  take  away  even  a  cardinal’s  breath,” 
answered  Madame  Mayer.  “  I  was  never,  never  so  surprised  in 
my  life !  ” 

Gouache  stood  up  to  get  a  view  of  his  work,  and  Donna 
Tullia  looked  at  him  critically. 

“  Tiens  !  ”  she  exclaimed,  “  it  is  rather  becoming — what 
small  ankles  you  have.  Gouache!” 

Anastase  laughed.  It  was  impossible  to  be  grave  in  the  face 
of  such  utterly  frivolous  inconsistency. 


SARACINESCA. 


217 


“  You  will  allow  your  expression  to  change  so  often,  Donna 
Tullia!  It  is  impossible  to  catch  it.” 

“  Like  your  convictions,”  murmured  Del  Fence  from  his 
corner.  Indeed  Ugo  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  scene. 
He  had  miscalculated  the  strength  of  Donna  Tullia's  fears  as 
compared  with  her  longing  to  possess  a  flattering  portrait  of 
herself.  Rather  than  leave  the  picture  unfinished,  she  exhibited 
a  cynical  indifference  to  danger  which  would  have  done  honour 
to  a  better  man  than  Del  Ferice.  Perhaps,  too,  she  understood 
Gouache  well  enough  to  know  that  he  might  be  trusted.  In¬ 
deed  any  one  would  have  trusted  Gouache.  Even  Del  Ferice 
was  less  disturbed  at  the  possibility  of  the  artist’s  repeating  any 
of  the  trivial  liberal  talk  which  he  had  listened  to,  than  at  the 
indifference  to  discovery  shown  by  Donna  Tullia.  To  Del 
Ferice,  the  whole  thing  had  been  but  a  harmless  play;  but  he 
wanted  Madame  Mayer  to  believe  that  it  had  all  been  in  solemn 
earnest,  and  that  she  was  really  implicated  in  a  dangerous  plot; 
for  it  gave  him  a  stronger  hold  upon  her  for  his  own  ends. 

“So  you  are  going  to  fight  for  Pio  Nono,”  remarked  Ugo, 
scornfully,  after  another  pause. 

“I  am,”  replied  Gouache.  “And,  no  offence  to  you,  my 
friend,  if  I  meet  you  in  a  red  shirt  among  the  Garibaldini,  I 
will  kill  you.  It  would  be  very  unpleasant,  so  I  hope  that  you 
will  not  join  them.” 

“Take  care,  Del  Ferice,”  laughed  Donna  Tullia;  “your  life 
is  in  danger!  You  had  better  join  the  Zouaves  instead.” 

“  I  cannot  paint  his  Eminence's  portrait,”  returned  Ugo, 
with  a  sneer,  “so  there  is  no  chance  of  that.” 

“You  might  assist  him  with  wholesome  advice,  I  should 
think,”  answered  Gouache.  “  I  have  no  doubt  you  could  tell 
him  much  that  would  be  very  useful.” 

“  And  turn  traitor  to - ” 

“Hush!  Do  not  be  so  silly,  Del  Ferice,”  interrupted  Donna 
Tullia,  who  began  to  fear  that  Del  Ferice's  taunts  would  make 
trouble.  She  had  a  secret  conviction  that  it  would  not  be  good 
to  push  the  gentle  Anastase  too  far.  He  was  too  quiet,  too  deter¬ 
mined,  and  too  serious  not  to  be  a  little  dangerous  if  roused. 

“  Do  not  be  absurd,”  she  repeated.  “  Whatever  Gouache 
may  choose  to  do,  he  is  a  gentleman,  and  I  will  not  have  you 
talk  of  traitors  like  that.  He  does  not  quarrel  with  you — why 
do  you  try  to  quarrel  with  him? ” 

“  I  think  he  has  done  quite  enough  to  justify  a  quarrel,  I  am 
sure,”  replied  Del  Ferice,  moodily. 

“  My  dear  sir,”  said  Gouache,  desisting  from  his  work  and 
turning  towards  Ugo,  “  Madame  is  quite  right.  I  not  only  do 
not  quarrel,  but  I  refuse  to  be  quarrelled  with.  You  have  my 
most  solemn  assurance  that  whatever  has  previously  passed 


218 


SARACINESCA. 


here,  whatever  I  have  heard  said  by  you,  by  Donna  Tullia,  by 
Valdarno,  by  any  of  your  friends,  I  regard  as  an  inviolaole 
secret.  You  formerly  said  1  had  no  convictions,  and  you  were 
right.  I  had  none,  and  I  listened  to  your  exposition  of  your 
own  with  considerable  interest.  My  case  is  changed.  I  need 
not  tell  you  what  I  believe,  for  I  wear  the  uniform  of  a  Papal 
Zouave.  When  I  put  it  on,  I  certainly  did  not  contemplate 
offending  you ;  I  do  not  wish  to  offend  you  now — I  only  beg 
that  you  will  refrain  from  offending  me.  For  my  part,  I  need 
only  say  that  henceforth  I  do  not  desire  to  take  a  part  in  your 
councils.  If  Donna  Tullia  is  satisfied  with  her  portrait,  there 
need  be  no  further  occasion  for  our  meeting.  If,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  we  are  to  meet  again,  I  beg  that  we  may  meet  on  a  foot¬ 
ing  of  courtesy  and  mutual  respect.” 

It  was  impossible  to  say  more;  and  Gouache’s  speech  termi¬ 
nated  the  situation  so  far  as  Del  Ferice  was  concerned.  Donna 
Tullia  smilingly  expressed  her  approval. 

“Quite  right,  Gouache,”  she  said.  “You  know  it  would  be 
impossible  to  leave  the  portrait  as  it  is  now.  The  mouth,  you 
know — you  promised  to  do  something  to  it — just  the  expres¬ 
sion,  you  know.” 

Gouache  bowed  his  head  a  little,  and  set  to  work  again  with¬ 
out  a  word.  Del  Ferice  did  not  speak  again  during  the  sitting, 
but  sat  moodily  staring  at  the  canvas,  at  Donna  Tullia,  and  at 
the  floor.  It  was  not  often  that  he  was  moved  from  his 
habitual  suavity  of  manner,  but  Gouache’s  conduct  had  made 
him  feel  particularly  uncomfortable. 

The  next  time  Donna  Tullia  came  to  sit,  she  brought  her 
old  Countess,  and  Del  Ferice  did  not  appear.  The  portrait 
was  ultimately  finished  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties,  and 
was  hung  in  Donna  Tullia’s  drawing-room,  to  be  admired  and 
criticised  by  all  her  friends.  But  Gouache  rejoiced  when  the 
thing  was  finally  removed  from  his  studio,  for  he  had  grown  to 
hate  it,  and  had  been  almost  willing  to  flatter  it  out  of  all  like¬ 
ness  to  Madame  Mayer,  for  the  sake  of  not  being  eternally 
confronted  by  the  cold  stare  of  her  blue  eyes.  He  finished  the 
Cardinal’s  portrait  too;  and  the  statesman  not  only  paid  for  it 
with  unusual  liberality,  but  gave  the  artist  what  he  called  a 
little  memento  of  the  long  hours  they  had  spent  together.  He 
opened  one  of  the  lockers  in  his  study,  and  from  a  small  drawer 
selected  an  ancient  ring,  in  which  was  set  a  piece  of  crystal 
with  a  delicate  intaglio  of  a  figure  of  Victory.  He  took  Gou¬ 
ache’s  hand  and  slipped  the  ring  upon  his  finger.  He  had 
taken  a  singular  liking  to  Anastase. 

“Wear  it  as  a  little  souvenir  of  me,”  he  said  kindly.  “It  is 
a  Victory;  you  are  a  soldier  now,  so  I  pray  that  victory  may  go 
with  you;  and  I  give  Victory  herself  into  your  hands,” 


SARACINESCA. 


219 


“And  I,"  said  Gouache,  “will  pray  that  it  may  be  a  symbol 
in  my  hand  of  the  real  victories  you  are  to  win.” 

“Only  a  symbol,”  returned  the  Cardinal,  thoughtfully. 
“Nothing  but  a  symbol.  I  was  not  born  to  conquer,  but  to 
lead  a  forlorn-hope — to  deceive  vanquished  men  with  a  hope 
not  real,  and  to  deceive  the  victors  with  an  unreal  fear.  Never¬ 
theless,  my  friend,”  he  added,  grasping  Gouache’s  hand,  and 
fixing  upon  him  liis  small  bright  eyes, — “  nevertheless,  let  us 
fight,  fight — fight  to  the  very  end  !  ” 

“We  will  fight  to  the  end,  Eminence,”  said  Gouache.  He 
was  only  a  private  of  Zouaves,  and  the  man  whose  hand  he  held 
was  great  and  powerful;  but  the  same  spirit  was  in  the  hearts 
of  both,  the  same  courage,  the  same  devotion  to  the  failing 
cause — and  both  kept  their  words,  each  in  his  own  way. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Astrardente  was  in  some  respects  a  picturesque  place.  The 
position  of  the  little  town  gave  it  a  view  in  both  directions 
from  where  it  stood;  for  it  was  built  upon  a  precipitous  emi¬ 
nence  rising  suddenly  out  of  the  midst  of  the  narrow  strip  of 
fertile  land,  the  long  and  rising  valley  which,  from  its  lower 
extremity,  conducted  by  many  circuits  to  the  Roman  Campagna, 
and  which  ended  above  in  the  first  rough  passes  of  the  lower 
Abruzzi.  The  base  of  the  town  extended  into  the  vineyards 
and  olive-orchards  which  surrounded  the  little  hill  on  all  sides; 
and  the  summit  of  it  was  crowned  by  the  feudal  palace-castle — 
an  enormous  building  of  solid  stone,  in  the  style  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  Upon  the  same  spot  had  formerly  stood  a  rugged 
fortress,  but  the  magnificent  ideas  of  the  Astrardente  pope  had 
not  tolerated  such  remains  of  barbarism;  the  ancient  strong¬ 
hold  had  been  torn  down,  and  on  its  foundations  rose  a  gigantic 
mansion,  consisting  of  a  main  palace,  with  great  balconies  and 
columned  front,  overlooking  the  town,  and  of  two  massive 
wings  leading  back  like  towers  to  the  edge  of  the  precipitous 
rock  to  northwards.  Between  these  wings  a  great  paved  court 
formed  a  sort  of  terrace,  open  upon  one  side,  and  ornamented 
within  with  a  few  antique  statues  dug  up  upon  the  estates,  and 
with  numerous  plants,  which  the  old  duke  had  caused  to  be 
carefully  cultivated  in  vases,  and  which  were  only  exposed 
upon  the  terrace  during  the  warm  summer  months.  The  view 
from  the  court  was  to  the  north — that  is  to  say,  down  the 
valley,  comprehending  ranges  of  hills  that  seemed  to  cross  and 
recross  into  the  extreme  distance,  their  outlines  being  each 
time  less  clearly  defiued,  as  the  masses  in  each  succeeding 
range  took  a  softer  purple  hue. 

Within,  the  palace  presented  a  great  variety  of  apartments. 


220 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


There  were  suites  of  vaulted  rooms  upon  the  lower  floor, 
frescoed  in  the  good  manner  of  the  fifteenth  century;  there 
were  other  suites  above,  hung  with  ancient  tapestry  and  fur¬ 
nished  with  old-fashioned  marble  tables,  and  mirrors  in  heavily 
gilt  frames,  and  one  entire  wing  had  been  lately  fitted  up  in 
the  modern  style.  In  this  part  of  the  house  Corona  established 
herself  with  Sister  Gabrielle,  and  began  to  lead  a  life  of  regular 
occupations  and  profound  retirement,  which  seemed  to  be 
rather  a  continuation  of  her  existence  in  the  convent  where  she 
had  been  educated  as  a  girl,  than  to  form  any  part  in  the  life 
of  the  superb  Duchessa  d’Astrardente,  who  for  five  years  had 
been  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  persons  in  society.  Every 
morning  at  eight  o’clock  the  two  ladies,  always  clad  in  deep 
black,  attended  the  Mass  which  was  celebrated  for  them  in  the 
palace  chapel.  Then  Corona  walked  for  an  hour  with  her 
companion  upon  the  terrace,  or,  if  it  rained,  beneath  the 
covered  balconies  upon  the  south  side.  The  morning  hours 
she  passed  in  solitude,  reading  such  books  of  devotion  and 
serious  matter  as  most  suited  the  sad  temper  of  her  mind;  pre¬ 
cisely  at  mid-day  she  and  Sister  Gabrielle  breakfasted  together 
in  a  sort  of  solemn  state;  and  at  three  o’clock  the  great  landau, 
with  its  black  horses  and  mourning  liveries,  stood  under  the 
inner  gate.  The  two  ladies  appeared  five  minutes  later,  and 
by  a  gesture  Corona  indicated  whether  she  would  be  driven  up 
or  down  the  valley.  The  dashing  equipage  descended  the  long 
smooth  road  that  wound  through  the  town,  and  returned 
invariably  at  the  end  of  two  hours,  again  ascended  the  tortu¬ 
ous  way,  and  disappeared  beneath  the  dark  entrance.  At  six 
o’clock  dinner  was  served,  with  the  same  solemn  state  as 
attended  the  morning  meal;  Corona  and  Sister  Gabrielle  re¬ 
mained  together  until  ten,  and  the  day  was  over.  There  was 
no  more  variation  in  the  routine  of  their  lives  than  if  they  had 
been  moved  by  a  machinery  connected  with  the  great  castle 
clock  overhead,  which  chimed  the  hours  and  the  quarters  by 
day  and  night,  and  regulated  the  doings  of  the  town  below. 

But  in  spite  of  this  unchanging  sequence  of  similar  habit, 
the  time  passed  pleasantly  for  Corona.  She  had  had  too  much 
of  the  brilliant  lights  and  the  buzzing  din  of  society  for  the 
last  five  years,  too  much  noise,  too  much  idle  talk,  too  much 
aimless  movement;  she  needed  rest,  too,  from  the  constant 
strain  of  her  efforts  to  fulfil  her  self-imposed  duties  towards 
her  husband — most  of  all,  perhaps,  she  required  a  respite  from 
the  sufferings  she  had  undergone  through  her  stifled  love  for 
Giovanni  Saracinesca.  All  this  she  found  in  the  magnificent 
calm  of  the  life  at  Astrardente.  She  meditated  long  upon  the 
memory  of  her  husband,  recalling  lovingly  those  things  which 
had  been  most  worthy  in  him,  willingly  forgetting  his  many 


SARACIHESCA. 


221 


follies  and  vanitiefe  and  moments  of  petulance.  She  went  over 
in  her  mind  the  many  and  varied  scenes  of  the  past,  and 
learned  to  love  the  sweet  and  silent  solitude  of  the  present  by 
comparison  of  it  with  all  the  useless  and  noisy  activity  of  the 
world  she  had  for  a  time  abandoned.  She  had  not  expected  to 
find  anything  more  than  a  passive  companion  in  Sister  Gabri- 
elle;  but  in  the  course  of  their  daily  converse  she  discovered  in 
her  a  character  of  extreme  refinement  and  quick  perception, 
a  depth  of  human  sympathy  and  a  breadth  of  experience  which 
amazed  her,  and  made  her  own  views  of  things  seem  small. 
The  Sister  was  devout  and  rigid  in  the  observance  of  the  insti¬ 
tutions  of  her  order,  in  so  far  as  she  was  able  to  follow  out 
the  detail  of  religious  regulation  without  interfering  with  the 
convenience  of  her  companion;  but  in  her  conversation  she 
showed  an  intimate  knowledge  of  character  which  was  a  con¬ 
stant  source  of  pleasure  to  Corona,  who  told  the  Sister  long 
stories  of  people  she  had  known  for  the  sake  of  hearing  her 
admirable  comments  upon  social  questions. 

But  besides  her  reading  and  her  long  hours  of  meditation 
and  her  talks  with  Sister  Gabrielle,  Corona  found  occupation 
in  the  state  of  the  town  below  her  residence.  She  attempted 
once  or  twice  to  visit  the  poor  cottages,  in  the  hope  of  doing 
some  good ;  but  she  found  that  she  was  such  an  object  of  holy 
awe  to  the  inmates  that  they  were  speechless  in  her  presence, 
or  became  so  nervous  in  their  desire  to  answer  her  questions, 
that  the  information  she  was  able  to  obtain  concerning  their 
troubles  was  too  vague  to  be  of  any  use. 

The  Italian  peasant  is  not  the  same  in  all  parts  of  the  coun¬ 
try,  as  is  generally  supposed ;  and  although  the  Tuscan,  who  is 
constantly  brought  into  familiar  contact  with  his  landlord,  and 
acquires  a  certain  pleasant  faith  in  him,  grows  eloquent  upon 
the  conditions  of  his  being,  the  same  is  not  true  of  the  rougher 
race  that  labours  in  the  valleys  of  the  Sabine  and  the  Samnite 
hills.  The  peasant  of  the  Agro  Romano  is  indeed  capable  of 
civilisation,  and  he  is  able  to  understand  his  superiors,  provided 
that  he  is  gradually  accustomed  to  seeing  them  :  unfortunately 
this  occurs  but  rarely.  Many  of  the  great  Roman  landholders 
spend  a  couple  of  months  of  every  year  upon  their  estates :  old 
Astrardente  had  in  his  later  years  gone  to  considerable  expense 
in  refitting  and  repairing  the  castle,  but  he  had  done  little 
for  the  town.  Men  like  the  Saracinesca,  however,  were  great 
exceptions  at  that  time;  though  they  travelled  much  abroad, 
they  often  remained  for  many  months  in  their  rugged  old  for¬ 
tress.  They  knew  the  inhabitants  of  their  lands  far  and  wide, 
and  were  themselves  not  only  known  but  loved ;  they  spent 
their  money  in  improving  the  condition  of  their  peasants,  in 
increasing  the  area  of  their  forests,  and  in  fostering  the  fer- 


SARACINESOA. 


222 

tility  of  the  soil,  but  they  cared  nothing  for  adorning  the  grey 
stone  walls  of  their  ancestors'  stronghold.  It  had  done  well 
enough  for  a  thousand  years,  it  would  do  well  enough  still;  it 
had  stood  firm  against  fierce  sieges  in  the  dark  ages  of  the 
Roman  baronry,  it  could  afford  to  stand  unchanged  in  its 
monumental  strength  against  the  advancing  sea  of  nineteenth- 
century  civilisation.  They  themselves,  father  and  son,  were 
content  with  such  practical  improvements  as  they  could  intro¬ 
duce  for  the  good  of  their  poople  and  the  enriching  of  their 
land;  a  manly  race,  despising  luxury,  they  cared  little  whether 
their  home  was  thought  comfortable  by  the  few  guests  they 
occasionally  invited  to  spend  a  week  with  them.  They  saw 
much  of  the  peasantry,  and  went  daily  among  them,  under¬ 
standing  their  wants,  and  wisely  promoting  in  their  minds  the 
belief  that  land  cannot  prosper  unless  both  landlord  and  tenant 
do  their  share. 

But  Astrardente  was  a  holding  of  a  very  different  kind,  and 
Corona,  in  her  first  attempts  at  understanding  the  state  of 
things,  found  herself  stopped  by  a  dead  wall  of  silence,  beyond 
which  she  guessed  that  there  lay  an  undiscovered  land  of 
trouble.  She  knew  next  to  nothing  of  the  condition  of  her 
people;  she  only  imperfectly  understood  the  relations  in  which 
they  actually  stood  to  herself,  the  extent  of  her  power  over 
them,  and  of  their  power  over  her.  The  mysteries  of  emphy¬ 
teusis ,  emphyteuma ,  and  emphyteuta  were  still  hidden  to  her, 
though  her  steward  spoke  of  them  with  surprising  loquacity 
and  fluency.  She  laboured  hard  to  understand  the  system 
upon  which  her  tenants  held  their  lands  from  her,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  she  succeeded.  It  is  easier  to  explain  the 
matter  at  once  than  to  follow  Corona  in  her  attempts  to  com¬ 
prehend  it. 

To  judge  from  the  terms  employed,  the  system  of  holdings 
common  in  the  Pontifical  States  has  descended  without  inter¬ 
ruption  from  the  time  of  the  Romans  to  the  present  day.  As 
in  old  Roman  law,  emphyteusis ,  now  spelt  emfiteuse,  means  the 
possession  of  rights  over  another  person's  land,  capable  of 
transmission  by  inheritance;  and  to-day,  as  under  the  Romans, 
the  holder  of  such  rights  is  called  the  emphyteuta ,  or  emfiteuta. 
How  the  Romans  came  to  use  Greek  words  in  their  tenant-law 
does  not  belong  to  the  matter  in  hand;  these  words  are  the 
only  ones  now  in  use  in  this  part  of  Italy,  and  they  are  used 
precisely  as  they  were  in  remote  times. 

A  tenant  may  acquire  rights  of  emfiteuse  directly  from  the 
owner  of  the  land,  like  an  ordinary  lease ;  or  he  may  acquire 
them  by  settlement— “  squatting,"  as  the  popular  term  is. 
Wherever  land  is  lying  waste,  any  one  may  establish  himself 
upon  it  and  cultivate  it,  on  condition  of  paying  to  the  owner  a 


SARACItfESCA. 


223 


certain  proportion  of  the  yield  of  the  land — generally  one 
quarter — either  in  kind  or  in  money.  The  landlord  may, 
indeed,  refuse  the  right  of  settlement  in  the  first  instance, 
which  would  very  rarely  occur,  since  most  people  who  own 
barren  tracts  of  rock  and  heath  are  only  too  glad  to  promote 
any  kind  of  cultivation.  But  when  the  landlord  has  once 
allowed  the  right,  the  right  itself  is  constituted  thereby  into  a 
possession  of  which  the  peasant  may  dispose  as  he  pleases,  even 
by  selling  it  to  another.  The  law  provides,  however,  that  in 
case  of  transfers  by  sale,  the  landlord  shall  receive  one  year’s 
rent  in  kind  or  in  money  in  addition  to  the  rent  due,  and  this 
bonus  is  paid  jointly  by  the  buyer  and  the  seller  according  to 
agreement.  Such  holdings  are  inherited  from  father  to  son 
for  many  generations,  and  are  considered  to  be  perpetual  leases. 
The  landlord  cannot  expel  a  tenant  except  for  non-payment  of 
rent  during  three  consecutive  years.  In  actual  fact,  the  right 
of  the  emfiteuta  in  the  soil  is  far  more  important  than  that  of 
the  landlord;  for  the  tenant  can  cheat  his  landlord  as  much 
as  he  pleases,  whereas  the  injustice  of  the  law  provides  that 
under  no  circumstances  whatsoever  shall  the  landlord  cheat 
the  tenant.  In  actual  fact,  also,  the  rents  are  universally  paid 
in  kind,  and  the  peasant  eats  what  remains  of  the  produce,  so 
that  very  little  cash  is  seen  in  the  land. 

Corona  discovered  that  the  income  she  enjoyed  from  the 
lands  of  Astrardente  was  collected  by  the  basketful  from  the 
threshing-floors,  and  by  the  barrel  from  the  vineyards  of  some 
two  hundred  tenants.  It  was  a  serious  matter  to  gather  from 
two  hundred-  threshing-floors  precisely  a  quarter  of  the  grain 
threshed,  and  from  fifty  or  sixty  vineyards  precisely  a  quarter 
of  the  wine  made  in  each.  The  peasants  all  made  their  wine 
at  the  same  time,  and  all  threshed  their  grain  in  the  same  week. 
If  the  agent  was  not  on  the  spot  during  the  threshing  and  the 
vintage,  the  peasant  had  no  difficulty  whatever  in  hiding  a  large 
quantity  of  his  produce.  As  the  rent  was  never  fixed,  but  de¬ 
pended  solely  on  the  yield  of  the  year,  it  was  pre-eminently  to 
the  advantage  of  the  tenant  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the 
landlord  whenever  he  got  a  chance.  The  landlord  found  the 
business  of  watching  his  tenants  tedious  and  unprofitable,  and 
naturally  resorted  to  the  crowning  evil  of  agricultural  evils — 
the  employment  of  a  rent-farmer.  The  latter,  at  all  events, 
was  willing  to  pay  a  fixed  sum  yearly;  and  if  the  sum  paid  was 
generally  considerably  below  the  real  value  of  the  rents,  the 
arrangement  at  least  assured  a  fixed  income  to  the  landlord, 
with  the  certainty  of  getting  it  without  trouble  to  himself. 
The  middleman  then  proceeded  to  grind  the  tenants  at  his 
leisure  and  discretion  in  order  to  make  the  best  of  his  bargain. 
The  result  was,  that  while  the  tenant  starved  and  the  landlord 


224 


SARACINESCA. 


got  less  than  his  due  in  consideration  of  being  saved  from  an¬ 
noyance,  the  middleman  gradually  accumulated  money. 

Upon  this  system  nine-tenths  of  the  land  in  the  Pontifical 
States  was  held,  and  much  of  the  same  land  is  so  held  to-day, 
in  spite  of  the  modern  tenant-law,  for  reasons  which  will  be 
clearly  explained  in  another  part  of  this  history.  Corona  saw 
and  understood  that  the  evil  was  very  great.  She  discussed 
the  matter  with  her  steward,  or  ministro  as  he  was  called,  who 
was  none  other  than  the  aforesaid  middleman;  and  the  more 
she  discussed  the  question,  the  more  hopeless  the  question  ap¬ 
peared.  The  steward  held  a  contract  from  her  dead  husband 
for  a  number  of  years.  He  had  regularly  paid  the  yearly  sums 
agreed  upon,  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  remove  him  for 
several  years  to  come.  He,  of  course,  was  strenuously  opposed 
to  any  change,  and  did  his  best  to  make  himself  appear  as  an 
angel  of  mercy  and  justice,  presiding  over  a  happy  family  of 
rejoicing  peasants  in  the  heart  of  a  terrestrial  paradise.  Un¬ 
fortunately  for  himself,  however,  he  had  not  at  first  understood 
the  motive  which  prompted  Corona’s  inquiries.  He  supposed 
in  the  beginning  that  she  was  not  satisfied  with  the  amount  of 
rent  he  paid,  and  that  at  the  expiration  of  his  contract  she  in¬ 
tended  to  raise  the  sum;  so  that,  on  the  first  occasion  when  she 
sent  for  him,  he  had  drawn  a  piteous  picture  of  the  peasant’s 
condition,  and  had  expatiated  with  eloquence  on  his  own  po¬ 
verty,  and  on  the  extreme  difficulty  of  collecting  any  rents  at 
all.  It  was  not  until  he  discovered  that  Corona’s  chief  preoc¬ 
cupation  was  for  the  welfare  of  her  tenants  that  he  changed  his 
tactics,  and  endeavoured  to  prove  that  all  was  for  the  best  upon 
the  best  of  all  possible  estates. 

Then,  to  his  great  astonishment,  Corona  informed  him  that 
his  contract  would  not  be  renewed,  and  that  at  the  expiration 
of  his  term  she  would  collect  her  rents  herself.  It  had  taken 
her  long  to  understand  the  situation,  but  when  she  had  com¬ 
prehended  it,  she  made  up  her  mind  that  something  must  be 
done.  If  her  fortune  had  depended  solely  upon  the  income 
she  received  from  the  Astrardente  lands,  she  would  have  made 
up  her  mind  to  reduce  herself  to  penury  rather  than  allow 
things  to  go  in  the  way  they  were  going.  Fortunately  she  was 
rich,  and  if  she  had  not  all  the  experience  necessary  to  deal 
with  such  matters,  she  had  plenty  of  goodwill,  plenty  of  gene¬ 
rosity,  and  plenty  of  money.  In  her  simple  theory  of  agrarian 
economy  the  best  way  to  improve  an  estate  seemed  to  be  to 
spend  the  income  arising  from  it  directly  upon  its  improve¬ 
ment,  until  she  could  take  the  whole  management  of  it  into  her 
own  hands.  The  trouble,  as  she  thought,  was  that  there  was 
too  little  money  among  the  peasants;  the  best  way  to  help 
them  was  to  put  money  within  their  reach.  The  only  question 


SARACINESCA. 


225 


was  how  to  do  this  without  demoralising  them,  and  without 
increasing  their  liabilities  towards  the  ministro  or  middleman. 

Then  she  sent  for  the  curate.  From  him  she  learned  that 
the  people  did  well  enough  in  the  summer,  but  that  the  winter 
was  dreaded.  She  asked  why.  He  answered  that  they  were 
not  provident;  that  the  land  system  was  bad;  and  that  even  if 
they  saved  anything  the  ministro  would  take  it  from  them. 
She  inquired  whether  he  thought  it  possible  to  induce  them  to 
be  more  thrifty.  He  thought  it  might  be  done  in  ten  years,  but 
not  in  one. 

“  In  that  case,”  said  Corona,  “  the  only  way  to  improve  their 
condition  is  to  give  them  work  in  the  winter.  I  will  make 
roads  through  the  estate,  and  build  large  dwelling-houses  in 
the  town.  There  shall  be  work  enough  for  everybody.” 

It  was  a  simple  plan,  but  it  was  destined  to  be  carried  into 
execution,  and  to  change  the  face  of  the  Astrardente  domain  in 
a  few  years.  Corona  sent  to  Rome  for  an  engineer  who  was 
also  a  good  architect,  and  she  set  herself  to  study  the  possibili¬ 
ties  of  the  place,  giving  the  man  sufficient  scope,  and  only  in¬ 
sisting  that  there  should  be  no  labour  and  no  material  imported 
from  beyond  the  limits  of  her  lands.  This  provided  her  with 
an  occupation  whereby  the  time  passed  quickly  enough. 

The  Lenten  season  ended,  and  Eastertide  ran  swiftly  on  to 
Pentecost.  The  early  fruit-trees  blossomed  white,  and  the- 
flowers  fell  in  a  snow-shower  to  the  ground,  to  give  place  to 
the  cherries  and  the  almonds  and  the  pears.  The  brown  bram¬ 
ble-hedges  turned  leafy,  and  were  alive  with  little  birds;  and 
the  great  green  lizards  shot  across  the  woodland  paths  upon  the 
hillside,  and  caught  the  flies  that  buzzed  noisily  in  the  spring 
sunshine.  The  dried-up  vines  put  forth  tiny  leaves,  and  the 
maize  shot  suddenly  up  to  the  sun  out  of  the  rich  furrows,  like 
myriads  of  brilliant  green  poignards  piercing  the  brown  skin  of 
the  earth.  By  the  roadside  the  grass  grew  high,  and  the  broad 
shallow  brooks  shrank  to  narrow  rivulets,  and  disappeared  in 
the  overgrowing  rushes  before  the  increasing  heat  of  the  climb¬ 
ing  sun. 

Corona’s  daily  round  of  life  never  changed,  but  as  the  months 
wore  on,  a  stealing  thought  came  often  and  often  again — shy, 
as  though  fearing  to  be  driven  away;  silent  at  first,  as  a  shadow 
in  a  dream,  but  taking  form  and  reality  from  familiarity  with 
its  own  self,  and  speaking  intelligible  words,  saying  at  last 
plainly,  “  Will  he  keep  his  promise  ?  Will  he  never  come?  ” 

But  he  came  not  as  the  fresh  colours  of  spring  deepened  with 
the  rich  maturity  of  summer;  and  Corona,  gazing  down  the 
valley,  saw  the  change  that  came  over  the  fair  earth,  and  half 
guessed  the  change  that  was  coming  over  her  own  life.  She 
had  sought  solitude  instinctively,  but  she  had  not  known  what 


226 


SARACINESCA. 


it  would  bring  her.  She  had  desired  to  honour  her  dead  hus¬ 
band  by  withdrawing  from  the  world  for  a  time  and  thinking 
of  him  and  remembering  him.  She  had  done  so,  but  the  youth 
in  her  rebelled  at  last  against  the  constant  memory  of  old  age 
— of  an  old  age,  too,  which  had  passed  away  from  her  and  was 
dead  for  ever.  It  was  right  to  dwell  for  a  time  upon  the 
thought  of  her  widowhood,  but  the  voice  said  it  would  not  be 
always  right.  The  calm  and  noiseless  tide  of  the  old  man’s 
ceasing  life  had  ebbed  slowly  and  reluctantly  from  her  shore, 
and  she  had  followed  the  sad  sea  in  her  sorrow  to  the  furthest 
verge  of  its  retreat;  but  as  she  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  stag¬ 
nant  waters,  gazing  far  out  and  trying  to  follow  even  further 
the  slow  subsiding  ooze,  the  tide  had  turned  upon  her  una¬ 
wares,  the  fresh  seaward  breeze  sprang  up  and  broke  the  dead 
calm  with  the  fresh  motion  of  crisp  ripples  that  once  more 
flowed  gladly  over  the  dreary  sand,  and  the  waters  of  life 
plashed  again  and  laughed  gladly  together  around  her  feet. 

The  thought  of  Giovanni — the  one  thought  that  again  and 
again  kept  recurring  in  her  mind — grew  very  sweet, — as  sweet 
as  it  had  once  been  bitter.  There  was  nothing  to  stop  its 
growth  now,  and  she  let  it  have  its  way.  What  did  it  mat¬ 
ter,  so  long  as  he  did  not  come  near  her — for  the  present  ? 
Some  day  he  would  come;  she  wondered  when,  and  how  long 
he  would  keep  his  promise.  But  meanwhile  she  was  not  un¬ 
happy,  and  she  went  about  her  occupations  as  before;  only 
sometimes  she  would  go  alone  at  evening  to  the  balcony  that 
faced  the  higher  mountains,  and  there  she  would  stand  for  half 
an  hour  gazing  southward  towards  the  precipitous  rocks  that 
caught  the  red  glare  of  the  sinking  sun,  and  she  asked  herself 
if  he  were  there,  or  whether,  as  report  had  told  her,  he  were  in 
the  far  north.  It  was  but  half  a  day’s  ride  over  the  hills,  he 
had  said.  But  strain  her  sight  as  she  would,  she  could  not 
pierce  the  heavy  crags  nor  see  into  the  wooded  dells  beyond. 
He  had  said  he  would  pass  the  summer  there;  had  he  changed 
his  mind  ? 

But  she  was  not  unhappy.  There  was  that  in  her  which  for¬ 
bade  unhappiness,  which  would  have  broken  out  into  great  joy 
if  she  would  have  let  it;  but  yet  she  would  not.  It  was  too 
soon  yet  to  say  aloud  what  she  said  in  her  heart  daily,  that  she 
loved  Giovanni  with  a  great  love,  and  that  she  knew  she  was 
free  to  love  him.  In  that  thought  there  was  enough  of  joy. 
But  he  might  come  if  he  would;  her  anger  would  not  be  great 
if  he  broke  his  promise  now,  he  had  kept  it  so  long — six  whole 
months.  But  by-and-by,  as  the  days  passed,  the  first  note  of 
happiness  was  marred  by  the  discordant  ring  of  a  distant  fear. 
What  if  she  had  too  effectually  forbidden  him  to  see  her? 
What  if  he  had  gone  out  disappointed  of  all  hope,  and  was 


SARACINESCA. 


227 


really  in  distant  Scandinavia,  as  the  papers  said,  risking  his  life 

mBnfafter6Sl?: that  was  not  what  she  feared.  He  was  strong, 
young  brave— he  had  survived  a  thousand  dangers  he  would 
survife  these  also.  There  arose  between  her  and  the  thought 
of  him  an  evil  shadow,  the  linage  ot  a  woman,  and  it  took  the 
shane  of  Donna  Tullia  so  vividly  that  she  could  see  the  led  lips 
move  and  almost  hear  the  noisy  laugh.  She i  was with 
herself  at  tlie  idea,  but  it  recurred  continually  and  ga\e  nei 
min  and  the  pain  grew  to  an  intolerable  fear.  She  began  to 
feel  that  she  must  know  where  he  was,  at  any  cost,  or  she  could 
hale  no  peace.  She  was  restless  and  nervous  and  began  to  be 
-minded  in  her  conversation  with  Sister  bRbrieiie.  ±ne 
food  woman  saw  it,  and  advised  a  little  change-anytong  an 
excursion  of  a  day  for  instance.  Corona,  she  said,  was  too 

y°Hef  mSeaped  at  the  idea.  It  was  but  half  a  day’s  ride, 
he  had  said;  she  would  climb  those  hills  and  look  down  upon 
laracinesca-only  once.  She  might  perhaps  meet  some  peasant, 
a  w  a  careless  inquiry  she  would  learn  whether  he  was  there 
“01  lould  be  therqe  in  the  summer.  No  one  would  know; 
and  besides,  Sister  Gabrielle  had  said  that  an  excursion  would 
do  Corona  good.  Sister  Gabrielle  had  probably  never  heard 
that  Saraciifesca  was  so  near,  and  she  certainly  wonldnotpi« 
that  the  Duchessa  had  any  interest  m  its  lord.  She  announcea 
her  intentiof  and  the  Sister  approved-she  herself,  she  said, 

W  oXfoLwinfmmni^Sa  alone  entered  her  carriage 
and  was  driven  many  miles  up  the  southward  lulls,  till  the  road 
wasTofned  bya  broad  bridle-path  that  led  eastwards  towards 
the  Abrazzi/  Here  she  was  met  by  a  party  of  horsemen,  hei 
own  auardiani  or  forest-keepers,  as  they  are  called,  m  roug 
dark-blue  coats  and  leathern  gaiters.  Each  man  wore  upon  ns 
breast  a  round  plate  of  chiselled  silver,  bearing  the  arms  of  tnc 
“rdente-  each  had  a  long  rifle  slung  behmd  hmi  and  car¬ 
ried  a  holster  at  the  bow  of  his  huge  saddle  |  c°uple  or 
sturdy  black-browed  peasants  held  a  mule  by  the  bndle,  heavily 
caparisoned  in  the  old  fashion,  under  a  great  red  velvet  Spanish 
saddle  with  long  tarnished  trappings  that  had  once  been  en 
broidered  with  silver.  A  little  knot  of  peasants  and  ragge 

boys  stood  all  around  watching  the  preparations  with  interest, 

efoufhThatysh°e  was' as" safe  with  thSm  as  in  her  own  house. 


SARACINESCA. 


228 

As  the  bridle-path  wound  up  from  the  road,  the  country 
grew  more  rugged,  the  vegetation  more  scanty,  and  the  stones 
more  plentiful.  It  was  a  wilderness  of  rocky  desolation;  as 
far  as  one  could  see  there  was  no  sign  of  humanity,  not  a  soul 
upon  the  solitary  road,  not  a  living  thing  upon  the  desolate 
hills  that  rose  on  either  side  in  jagged  points  to  the  sky. 
Corona  talked  a  little  with  the  head-keeper  who  rode  beside 
her  with  a  slack  rein,  letting  his  small  mountain  horse  pick  its 
own  way  over  the  rough  path.  He  told  her  that  few  people 
ever  passed  that  way.  It  was  the  short  road  to  Saracinesca. 
The  princes  sometimes  sent  their  carriage  round  by  the  longer 
way  and  rode  over  the  hills;  and  in  the  vintage-time  there  was 
some  traffic,  as  many  of  the  smaller  peasants  carried  grapes 
across  the  pass  to  the  larger  wine-presses,  and  sold  them  out¬ 
right.  It  was  not  a  dangerous  road,  for  the  very  reason  that  it 
was  so  unfrequented.  The  Duchessa  explained  that  she  only 
wanted  to  see  the  valley  beyond  from  the  summit  of  the  pass, 
and  would  then  return.  It  was  past  mid-day  when  the  party 
reached  the  highest  point, — a  depression  between  the  crags  just 
wide  enough  to  admit  one  loaded  mule.  The  keeper  said  she 
could  see  Saracinesca  from  the  end  of  the  narrow  way,  before 
the  descent  began.  She  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  as 
she  reached  the  spot. 

Scarcely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  right,  at  the  extremity  of 
a  broad  liill-road,  she  saw  the  huge  towers  of  Saracinesca,  grey 
and  storm-beaten,  rising  out  of  a  thick  wood.  The  whole 
intervening  space — and  indeed  the  whole  deep  valley  as  far  as 
she  could  see — was  an  unbroken  forest  of  chestnut-trees.  Here 
and  there  below  the  castle  the  houses  of  the  town  showed  their 
tiled  gables,  but  the  mass'  of  the  buildings  was  hidden  com¬ 
pletely  from  sight.  Corona  had  had  no  idea  that  she  should 
find  herself  so  near  to  the  place,  and  she  was  seized  with  a  sud¬ 
den  fear  lest  Giovanni  should  appear  upon  the  long  straight 
path  that  led  into  the  trees.  She  drew  back  a  little  among  her 
followers. 

“  Are  the  princes  there  now  ?  ”  she  asked  of  the  head-keeper. 

He  did  not  know;  but  a  moment  later  a  peasant,  riding 
astride  of  a  bag  of  corn  upon  his  donkey’s  back,  passed  along 
the  straight  road  by  the  entrance  to  the  bridle-path.  The 
keeper  hailed  him,  and  put  the  question.  Seeing  Corona  upon 
her  mule,  surrounded  by  armed  men  in  livery,  the  man  halted, 
and  pulled  off  his  soft  black-cloth  hat. 

Both  the  princes  were  in  Saracinesca,  he  said.  The  young 
prince  had  been  there  ever  since  Easter.  They  were  busy 
building  an  aqueduct  which  was  to  supply  the  whole  town  with 
water;  it  was  to  pass  above,  up  there  among  the  woods.  The 
princes  went  almost  every  day  to  visit  the  works.  Her  Excel- 


SARACINESCA. 


229 


lency  might,  perhaps,  find  them  there  now,  or  if  not,  they  were 
at  the  castle. 

But  her  Excellency  had  no  intention  of  finding  them.  She 
gave  the  fellow  a  coin,  and  beat  a  somewhat  hasty  retreat. 
Her  followers  were  silent  men,  accustomed  to  obey,  and  they 
followed  her  down  the  steep  path  without  even  exchanging  a 
word  among  themselves.  Beneath  the  shade  of  an  overhang¬ 
ing  rock  she  halted,  and,  dismounting  from  her  mule,  was 
served  with  the  lunch  that  had  been  brought.  She  ate  little, 
and  then  sat  thoughtfully  contemplating  the  bare  stones,  while 
the  men  at  a  little  distance  hastily  disposed  of  the  remains  of 
her  meal.  She  had  experienced  an  extraordinary  emotion  on 
finding  herself  suddenly  so  near  to  Giovanni:  it  was  almost  as 
though  she  had  seen  him,  and  her  heart  beat  fast,  while  a  dark 
flush  rose  from  time  to  time  to  her  cheek.  It  would  have  been 
so  natural  that  he  should  pass  that  way,  just  as  she  was  halting 
at  the  entrance  to  the  bridle-path.  How  unspeakably  dreadful 
it  would  have  been  to  be  discovered  thus  spying  out  his  dwell¬ 
ing-place  when  she  had  so  strictly  forbidden  him  to  attempt  to 
see  her!  The  blush  burned  upon  her  cheeks — she  had  done  a 
thing  so  undignified,  so  ill  befitting  her  magnificent  superiority. 
For  a  moment  she  was  desperately  ashamed.  But  for  all  that, 
she  could  not  repress  the  glad  delight  she  felt  at  knowing  that 
he  was  there  after  all;  that,  if  he  had  kept  his  word  in  avoid¬ 
ing  her,  he  had,  nevertheless,  also  fulfilled  his  intention  of 
spending  the  summer  in  Saracinesca.  He  had  even  been  there 
since  Easter,  and  the  story  of  his  going  to  the  North  had  been 
a  mere  invention  of  the  newspapers.  She  could  not  understand 
his  conduct,  nor  why  he  had  gone  to  Paris — a  fact  attested  by 
people  who  knew  him.  It  had  probably  been  for  some  matter 
of  business — that  excuse  which,  in  a  woman’s  mind,  explains 
almost  any  sudden  journey  a  man  may  undertake.  But  he  was 
there  in  the  castle  now,  and  her  heart  was  satisfied. 

The  men  packed  the  things  in  the  basket,  and  Corona  was 
helped  upon  her  mule.  Slowly  the  party  descended  the  steep 
path  that  grew  broader  and  more  practicable  as  they  neared  the 
bottom ;  there  the  carriage  awaited  her,  and  soon  she  was  bowling 
along  the  smooth  road  towards  home,  leaving  far  behind  her  the 
mounted  guards,  the  peasants,  and  her  slow-paced  mule.  The 
sun  was  low  when  the  carriage  rolled  under  the  archway  of  As- 
trardente.  Sister  Gabrielle  said  Corona  looked  much  the  better 
for  her  excursion,  and  she  added  that  she  must  be  very  strong  to 
bear  such  fatigue,  so  well.  And  the  next  day — and  for  many 
days — the  Sister  noticed  the  change  in  her  hostess’s  manner,  and 
promised  herself  that  if  the  Duchessa  became  uneasy  again  she 
would  advise  another  day  among  the  hills,  so  wonderful  was  the 
effect  of  a  slight  change  from  the  ordinary  routine  of  her  life. 


230 


SARACINESCA. 


That  night  old  Saracinesca  and  his  son  sat  at  dinner  in  a 
wide  hall  of  their  castle.  The  faithful  Pasquale  served  them 
as  solemnly  as  he  was  used  to  do  in  Rome.  This  evening  he 
spoke  again.  He  had  ventured  no  remark  since  he  had  in¬ 
formed  them  of  the  Duca  d’Astrardente’s  death. 

“  I  beg  your  Excellencies’  pardon,”  he  began,  adopting  his 
usual  formula  of  apologetic  address. 

“  Well,  Pasquale,  what  is  it  ?  ”  asked  old  Saracinesca. 

“  1  did  not  know  whether  your  Excellency  was  aware  that 
the  Huchessa  d’ Astrardente  had  been  here  to-day.” 

“  What  ?  ”  roared  the  Prince. 

“  You  must  be  mad,  Pasquale  !  ”  exclaimed  Giovanni  in  a 
low  voice. 

“  I  beg  your  Excellencies’  pardon  if  I  am  wrong,  hut  this  is 
how  I  know.  Gigi  Secchi,  the  peasant  from  Aquaviva  in  the 
lower  forest,  brought  a  hag  of  corn  to  the  mill  to-day,  and  he 
told  the  miller,  and  the  miller  told  Ettore,  and  Ettore  told 
Nino,  and  Nino  told - ” 

“What  the  devil  did  he  tell  him?”  interrupted  old  Saracinesca. 

“Nino  told  the  cook’s  boy,”  continued  Pasquale  unmoved, 
“  and  the  cook’s  boy  told  me,  your  Excellency,  that  Gigi  was 
passing  along*  the  road  to  Serveti  coming  here,  when  he  was 
stopped  by  a  number  of  gnarcliani  who  accompanied  a  beauti¬ 
ful  dark  lady  in  black,  who  rode  upon  a  mule,  and  the  guardi- 
ani  asked  him  if  your  Excellencies  were  at  Saracinesca;  and 
when  he  said  you  were,  the  lady  gave  him  a  coin,  and  turned 
at  once  and  rode  down  the  bridle-path  towards  Astrardente, 
and  he  said  the  guardiani  were  those  of  the  Astrardente,  be¬ 
cause  he  remembered  to  have  seen  one  of  them,  who  has  a  scar 
over  his  left  eye,  at  the  great  fair  at  Genazzano  last  year.  And 
that  is  how  I  heard.” 

“  That  is  a  remarkable  narrative,  Pasquale,”  answered  the 
Prince,  laughing  loudly,  “but  it  seems  very  credible.  Go  and 
send  for  Gigi  Secchi  if  he  is  still  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
bring  him  here,  and  let  us  have  the  story  from  his  own  lips.” 

When  they  were  alone  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for 
a  moment,  and  then  old  Saracinesca  laughed  again;  hut  Gio¬ 
vanni  looked  very  grave,  and  his  face  was  pale.  Presently  his 
father  became  serious  again. 

“  If  this  thing  is  true,”  he  said,  “  I  would  advise  you,  Gio¬ 
vanni,  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  other  side  of  the  hills.  It  is  time.” 

Giovanni  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  was  intensely  inte¬ 
rested  in  the  situation,  but  he  could  not  tell  his  father  that  he 
had  promised  Corona  not  to  see  her,  and  he  had  not  yet  ex¬ 
plained  to  himself  her  sudden  appearance  so  near  Saracinesca. 

“  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  go  first,”  he  said  to 
his  father.  “  But  I  am  not  at  all  sure  this  story  is  true.” 


SARACINESCA. 


231 


“  I  ?  Oh,  I  will  go  when  you  please,”  returned  the  old  man, 
with  another  laugh.  He  was  always  ready  for  anything  active. 

But  Gigi  Secchi  could  not  be  found.  He  had  returned  to 
Aquaviva  at  once,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  send  a  message.  Two 
days  later,  how'ever,  Giovanni  took  the  trouble  of  going  to  the 
man’s  home.  He  was  not  altogether  surprised  when  Gigi  con¬ 
firmed  Pasquale’s  tale  in  every  particular.  Corona  had  ac¬ 
tually  been  at  Saracinesca  to  find  out  if  Giovanni  was  there  or 
not ;  and  on  hearing  that  he  was  at  the  castle,  she  had  fled  pre¬ 
cipitately.  Giovanni  was  naturally  grave  and  of  a  melancholy 
temper;  but  during  the  last  few  months  he  had  been  more 
than  usually  taciturn,  occupying  himself  with  dogged  obstinacy 
in  the  construction  of  his  aqueduct,  visiting  the  works  in  the 
day  and  spending  hours  in  the  evening  over  the  plans.  He  was 
waiting.  He  believed  that  Corona  cared  for  him,  and  he  knew 
that  he  loved  her,  but  for  the  present  he  must  wait  patiently, 
both  for  the  sake  of  his  promise  and  for  the  sake  of  a  decent 
respect  for  her  widowhood.  In  order  to  wait  he  felt  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  constant  occupation,  and  to  that  end  he  had  set  him¬ 
self  resolutely  to  work  with  his  father,  whose  ideal  dream  was 
to  make  Saracinesca  the  most  complete  and  prosperous  com¬ 
munity  in  that  part  of  the  mountains. 

“  I  think  if  you  would  go  over,”  he  said,  at  the  end  of  a  week, 
“  it  would  be  much  better.  I  do  not  want  to  intrude  myself 
upon  her  at  present,  and  you  could  easily  find  out  whether  she 
would  like  to  see  me.  After  all,  she  may  have  been  merely 
making  an  excursion  for  her  amusement,  and  may  have  chanced 
upon  us  by  accident.  I  have  often  noticed  how  suddenly  one 
comes  in  view  of  the  castle  from  that  bridle-path.” 

“On  the  other  hand,”  returned  the  Prince  with  a  smile, 
“  any  one  would  tell  her  that  the  path  leads  nowhere  except  to 
Saracinesca.  But  I  will  go  to-morrow,”  he  added.  “  I  will  set 
your  mind  at  rest  in  twenty-four  hours.” 

“  Thank  you,”  said  Giovanni. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Old  Saracinesca  kept  his  word,  and  on  the  following  morn¬ 
ing,  eight  days  after  Corona’s  excursion  upon  the  hills,  he  rode 
down  to  Astrardente,  reaching  the  palace  at  about  mid-day. 
He  sent  in  his  card,  and  stood  waiting  beneath  the  great  gate, 
beating  the  dust  from  hie  boots  with  his  heavy  whip.  His  face 
looked  darker  than  ever,  from  constant  exposure  to  the  sun, 
and  his  close-cropped  hair  and  short  square  b6ard  had  turned 
even  whiter  than  before  in  the  last  six  months,  but  his  strong 
form  was  erect,  and  his  step  firm  and  elastic.  He  was  a  re¬ 
markable  old  man;  many  a  boy  of  twenty  might  have  envied 
his  strength  and  energetic  vitality. 


232 


SARACINESCA. 


Corona  was  at  her  mid-day  breakfast  with  Sister  Gabrielle, 
when  the  old  Prince’s  card  was  brought.  She  started  at  the 
sight  of  the  name;  and  though  upon  the  bit  of  pasteboard  she 
read  plainly  enough,  “  II  Principe  di  Saracinesca,”  she  hesi¬ 
tated,  and  asked  the  butler  if  it  was  really  the  Prince.  He 
said  it  was. 

“Would  you  mind  seeing  him?”  she  asked  of  Sister  Gabri¬ 
elle.  “  He  is  an  old  gentleman,”  she  added,  in  explanation — 
“  a  near  neighbour  here  in  the  mountains.” 

Sister  Gabrielle  had  no  objection.  She  even  remarked  that 
it  would  do  the  Duchessa  good  to  see  some  one. 

“  Ask  the  Prince  to  come  in,  and  put  another  place  at  the 
table,”  said  Corona. 

A  moment  later  the  old  man  entered,  and  Corona  rose  to 
receive  him.  There  was  something  refreshing  in  the  ring  of 
his  deep  voice  and  the  clank  of  his  spurs  as  he  crossed  the 
marble  floor. 

“Signora  Duchessa,  you  are  very  good  to  receive  me.  I  did 
not  know  that  this  was  your  breakfast-hour.  Ah!”  he  ex¬ 
claimed,  glancing  at  Sister  Gabrielle,  who  had  also  risen  to  her 
feet,  “  good  day,  my  Sister.” 

“Sister  Gabrielle,”  said  Corona,  as  an  introduction;  “  she  is 
good  enough  to  be  my  companion  in  solitude.” 

To  tell  the  truth,  Corona  felt  uneasy;  but  the  sensation  was 
somehow  rather  pleasurable,  although  it  crossed  her  mind  that 
the  Prince  might  have  heard  of  her  excursion,  and  had  possibly 
come  to  find  out  why  she  had  been  so  near  to  his  place.  She 
boldly  faced  the  situation. 

“  I  nearly  came  upon  you  the  other  day  as  unexpectedly  as 
you  have  visited  me,”  she  said  with  a  smile.  “  I  had  a  fancy  to 
look  over  into  your  valley,  and  when  I  reached  the  top  of  the 
hill  I  found  I  was  almost  in  your  house.” 

“  I  wish  you  had  quite  been  there,”  returned  the  Prince. 
“  Of  course  I  heard  that  you  had  been  seen,  and  we  guessed 
you  had  stumbled  upon  us  in  some  mountain  excursion.  My 
son  rode  all  the  way  to  Aquaviva  to  see  the  man  who  had 
spoken  with  you.” 

Saracinesca  said  this  as  though  it  were  perfectly  natural,  help¬ 
ing  himself  to  the  dish  the  servant  offered  him.  But  when  he 
looked  up  he  saw  that  Corona  blushed  beneath  her  dark  skin. 

“  It  is  such  a  very  sudden  view  at  that  point,”  she  said,  ner¬ 
vously,  “  that  I  was  startled.” 

“  I  wish  you  had  preserved  your  equanimity  to  the  extent  of 
going  a  little  further.  Saracinesca  has  rarely  been  honoured 
with  the  visit  of  a  Duchessa  d’Astrardente.  But  since  you 
have  explained  your  visit — or  the  visit  which  you  did  not  make 
— I  ought  to  explain  mine.  You  must  know,  in  the  first  place, 


SARACIKESCA. 


233 


that  I  am  not  here  by  accident,  but  by  intention,  preconceived, 
well  pondered,  and  finally  executed  to  my  own  complete  satis¬ 
faction.  I  came,  not  to  get  a  glimpse  of  your  valley  nor  a 
distant  view  of  your  palace,  but  to  see  you,  yourself.  Your 
hospitality  in  receiving  me  has  therefore  crowned  and  compli¬ 
mented  the  desire  I  had  of  seeing  you.” 

Corona  laughed  a  little. 

“  That  is  a  very  pretty  speech,”  she  said. 

“  Which  you  would  have  lost  if  you  had  not  received  me,” 
he  answered,  gaily.  “  I  have  not  done  yet.  I  have  many 
pretty  speeches  for  you.  The  sight  of  you  induces  beauty  in 
language  as  the  sun  in  May  makes  the  flowers  open.” 

“  That  is  another,”  laughed  Corona.  “  Do  you  spend  your 
days  in  studying  the  poets  at  Saracinesca?  Does  Don  Gio¬ 
vanni  study  with  you  ?  ” 

“Giovanni  is  a  fact,”  returned  the  Prince;  “I  am  a  fable. 
Old  men  are  always  fables,  for  they  represent,  in  a  harmless 
form,  the  follies  of  all  mankind;  their  end  is  always  in  itself  a 
moral,  and  young  people  can  learn  much  by  studying  them.” 

“Your  comparison  is  witty,”  said  Corona,  who  was  much 
amused  at  old  Saracinesca’s  conversation;  “but  I  doubt 
whether  you  are  so  harmless  as  you  represent.  You  are  cer¬ 
tainly  not  foolish,  and  I  am  not  sure  whether,  as  a  study  for 
the  young - ”  she  hesitated,  and  laughed. 

“  Whether  extremely  young  persons  would  have  the  wit  to 
comprehend  virtue  by  the  concealment  of  it — to  say,  as  that 
witty  old  Roman  said,  that  the  images  of  Cassius  and  Brutus 
were  more  remarkable  than  those  of  any  one  else,  for  the  very 
reason  that  they  were  nowhere  to  be  seen — like  my  virtues  ? 
Giovanni,  for  instance,  is  the  very  reverse  of  me  in  that,  though 
he  has  shown  such  singularly  bad  taste  in  resembling  my  out¬ 
ward  man.” 

“  One  should  never  conceal  virtues,”  said  Sister  Gabrielle, 
gently.  “  One  should  not  hide  one’s  light  under  a  basket,  you 
know.” 

“  My  Sister,”  replied  the  old  Prince,  his  black  eyes  twinkling 
merrily,  “  if  I  had  in  my  whole  composition  as  much  light  as 
would  enable  you  to  read  half-a-dozen  words  in  your  breviary, 
it  should  be  at  your  disposal.  I  would  set  it  in  the  midst  of 
Piazza  Colonna,  and  call  it  the  most  wonderful  illumination  on 
record.  Unfortunately  my  light,  like  the  lantern  of  a  solitary 
miner,  is  only  perceptible  to  myself,  and  dimly  at  that.” 

“You  must  not  depreciate  yourself  so  very  much,”  said  Corona. 

“No;  that  is  true.  You  will  either  believe  I  am  speaking 
the  truth,  or  you  will  not.  I  do  not  know  which  would  be  the 
worse  fate.  I  will  change  the  subject.  My  son  Giovanni, 
Duchessa,  desires  to  be  remembered  in  your  good  graces.” 


234 


SARACINESCA. 


“  Thanks.  How  is  he  ?  ” 

“  He  is  well,  hut  the  temper  of  him  is  marvellously  melan¬ 
choly.  He  is  building  an  aqueduct,  and  so  am  I.  The  thing 
is  accomplished  by  his  working  perpetually  while  I  smoke 
cigarettes  and  read  novels.” 

“  The  division  of  labour  is  to  your  advantage,  I  should  say,” 
remarked  Corona. 

“  Immensely,  I  assure  you.  He  promotes  the  natural  advan¬ 
tages  of  my  lands,  and  I  encourage  the  traffic  in  tobacco  and 
literature.  He  works  from  morning  till  night,  is  his  own  engi¬ 
neer,  contractor,  overseer,  and  master-mason.  He  does  every¬ 
thing,  and  does  it  well.  If  we  were  less  barbarous  in  our 
bachelor  establishment  I  would  ask  you  to  come  and  see  us — in 
earnest  this  time — and  visit  the  work  we  are  doing.  It  is  well 
worth  while.  Perhaps  you  would  consent  as  it  is.  We  will 
vacate  the  castle  for  your  benefit,  and  mount  guard  outside  the 
gates  all  night.” 

Again  Corona  blushed.  She  would  have  given  anything  to 
go,  but  she  felt  that  it  was  impossible. 

“I  would  like  to  go,”  she  said.  “If  one  could  come  back 
the  same  day.” 

“  You  did  before,”  remarked  Saracinesca,  bluntly. 

“  But  it  was  late  when  I  reached  home,  and  I  spent  no  time 
at  all  there.” 

“  I  know  you  did  not,”  laughed  the  old  man.  “  You  gave 
Gigi  Secchi  some  money,  and  then  fled  precipitately.” 

“  Indeed  I  was  afraid  you  would  suddenly  come  upon  me, 
and  I  ran  away,”  answered  Corona,  laughing  in  her  turn,  as  the 
dark  blood  rose  to  her  olive  cheeks. 

“  As  my  amiable  ancestors  did  in  the  same  place  when  any¬ 
body  passed  with  a  full  purse,”  suggested  Saracinesca.  “  But 
we  have  improved  a  little  since  then.  We  would  have  asked 
you  to  breakfast.  Will  you  come  ?” 

“  I  do  not  like  to  go  alone;  I  cannot,  you  see.  Sister  Gabri¬ 
eli  e  could  never  ride  up  that  hill  on  a  mule.” 

“  There  is  a  road  for  carriages,”  said  the  Prince.  “  I  will 
propose  something  in  the  way  of  a  compromise.  I  will  bring 
Giovanni  down  with  me  and  our  team  of  mountain  horses. 
Those  great  beasts  of  yours  cannot  do  this  kind  of  work.  We 
will  take  you  and  Sister  Gabrielle  up  almost  as  fast  as  you 
could  go  by  the  bridle-path.” 

“  And  back  on  the  same  day  ?  ”  asked  Corona. 

“  No;  on  the  next  day.” 

“  But  I  do  not  see  where  the  compromise  is,”  she  replied. 

“  Sister  Gabrielle  is  at  once  the  compromise  and  the  cause 
that  you  will  not  be  compromised.  I  beg  her  pardon - ” 

Both  ladies  laughed. 


SARACINESCA. 


235 


“  I  will  be  very  glad  to  go,”  said  the  Sister.  “  I  do  not  see 
that  there  is  anything  extraordinary  in  the  Prince’s  proposal.” 

“  My  Sister,”  returned  Saracinesca,  “you  are  on  the  way  to 
saintship;  you  already  enjoy  the  beatific  vision;  you  see  with  a 
heavenly  perspicuity.” 

“It  is  a  charming  proposition,”  said  Corona;  “but  in  that 
case  you  will  have  to  come  down  the  day  before.”  She  was  a 
little  embarrassed. 

“We  will  not  invade  the  cloister,”  answered  the  Prince. 
“  Giovanni  and  I  will  spend  the  night  in  concocting  pretty 
speeches,  and  will  appear  armed  with  them  at  dawn  before  your 
gates.  ” 

“  There  is  room  in  Astrardente,”  replied  Corona.  “  You  shall 
not  lack  hospitality  for  a  night.  When  will  you  come  ?” 

“  To-morrow  evening,  if  you  please.  A  good  thing  should  be 
done  quickly,  in  order  not  to  delay  doing  it  again.” 

“  Do  you  think  I  would  go  again  ?  ” 

Saracinesca  fixed  his  black  eyes  on  Corona’s,  and  gazed  at  her 
some  seconds  before  he  answered. 

“  Madam,”  he  said  at  last,  very  gravely,  “  I  trust  you  will 
come  again  and  stay  longer.” 

“  You  are  very  good,”  returned  Corona,  quietly.  “  At  all 
events,  I  will  go  this  first  time.” 

“We  will  endeavour  to  show  our  gratitude  by  making  you 
comfortable,”  answered  the  Prince,  resuming  his  former  tone. 
“  You  shall  have  a  mass  in  the  morning  and  a  litany  in  the 
evening.  We  are  godless  fellows  up  there,  but  we  have  a 
priest.” 

“  You  seem  to  associate  our  comfort  entirely  with  religious 
services,”  laughed  Corona.  “  But  you  are  very  considerate.” 

“  I  see  the  most  charming  evidence  of  devotion  at  your  side,” 
he  replied;  “  Sister  Gabrielle  is  both  the  evidence  of  your  piety 
and  is  in  herself  an  exposition  of  the  benefits  of  religion.  There 
shall  be  other  attractions,  however,  besides  masses  and  litanies.” 

Breakfast  being  ended,  Sister  Gabrielle  left  the  two  together. 
They  went  from  the  dining-room  to  the  great  vaulted  hall  of 
the  inner  building.  It  was  cool  there,  and  there  were  great  old 
arm-chairs  ranged  along  the  walls.  The  closed  blinds  admitted 
a  soft  green  light  from  the  hot  noonday  without.  Corona  loved 
to  walk  upon  the  cool  marble  floor;  she  was  a  very  strong  and 
active  woman,  delighting  in  mere  motion — not  restless,  but 
almost  incapable  of  weariness;  her  movements  not  rapid,  but 
full  of  grace  and  ease.  Saracinesca  walked  by  her  side,  smok¬ 
ing  thoughtfully  for  some  minutes. 

“  Duchessa,”  ho  said  at  last,  glancing  at  her  beautiful  face, 
“  things  are  greatly  changed  since  we  met  last.  You  were  angry 
with  me  then.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  were  so  justly,  but 


236 


saracinesca. 


you  were  very  angry  for  a  few  moments.  I  am  going  to  return 
to  the  subject  now;  I  trust  you  will  not  be  otfended  with  me.” 

Corona  trembled  for  a  moment,  and  was  silent.  She  would 
have  prevented  him  from  going  on,  but  before  she  could  find 
the  words  she  sought  he  continued. 

“Things  are  much  changed,  in  some  respects;  in  others,  not 
at  all.  It  is  but  natural  to  suppose  that  in  the  course  of  time 
you  will  think  of  the  possibility  of  marrying  again.  My  son, 
Duchessa,  loves  you  very  truly.  Pardon  me,  it  is  no  disrespect 
to  you,  now,  that  he  should  have  told  me  so.  I  am  his  father, 
and  I  have  no  one  else  to  care  for.  He  is  too  honest  a  gentleman 
to  have  spoken  of  his  affection  for  you  at  an  earlier  period,  but 
he  has  told  me  of  it  now.” 

Corona  stood  still  in  the  midst  of  the  great  hall,  and  faced 
the  old  Prince.  She  had  grown  pale  while  he  was  speaking. 
Still  she  was  silent. 

“  I  have  nothing  more  to  say — that  is  all,”  said  Saracinesca, 
gazing  earnestly  into  the  depths  of  her  eyes.  “  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say.” 

“Do  you  then  mean  to  repeat  the  warning  you  once  gave 
me  ?  ”  asked  Corona,  growing  whiter  still.  “  Do  you  mean  to 
imply  that  there  is  danger  to  your  son  ?” 

“  There  is  danger — great  danger  for  him,  unless  you  will 
avert  it.” 

“  And  how  ?”  asked  Corona,  in  a  low  voice. 

“  Madam,  by  becoming  his  wife.” 

Corona  started  and  turned  away  in  great  agitation.  Saraci¬ 
nesca  stood  still  while  she  slowly  walked  a  few  steps  from  him. 
She  could  not  speak. 

“  I  could  say  a  great  deal  more,  Duchessa,”  he  said,  as  she 
came  back  towards  him.  “  I  could  say  that  the  marriage  is  not 
only  fitting  in  every  other  way,  but  is  also  advantageous  from  a 
worldly  point  of  view.  You  are  sole  mistress  of  Astrardente; 
my  son  will  before  long  be  sole  master  of  Saracinesca.  Our 
lands  are  near  together — that  is  a  great  advantage,  that  question 
of  fortune.  Again,  I  would  observe  that,  with  your  magnificent 
position,  you  could  not  condescend  to  accept  a  man  of  lower 
birth  than  the  highest  in  the  country.  There  is  none  higher 
than  the  Saracinesca — pardon  my  arrogance, — and  among 
princes  there  is  no  braver,  truer  gentleman  than  my  son  Giovanni. 
I  ask  no  pardon  for  saying  that;  I  will  maintain  it  against  all 
comers.  I  forego  all  questions  of  advantage,  and  base  my  argu¬ 
ment  upon  that.  He  is  the  best  man  I  know,  and  he  loves  you 
devotedly.” 

“Is  he  aware  that  you  are  here  for  this -purpose  ?”  asked 
Corona,  suddenly.  She  spoke  with  a  great  effort. 

“  No.  He  knows  that  I  am  here,  and  was  glad  that  I  came. 


SARACmESCA. 


237 


He  desired  me  to  ascertain  if  you  would  see  him.  He  would 
certainly  not  have  thought  of  addressing  you  at  present.  I  am 
an  old  man,  and  I  feel  that  I  must  do  things  quickly.  That  is 
my  excuse.” 

Corona  was  again  silent.  She  was  too  truthful  to  give  an 
evasive  answer,  and  yet  she  hesitated  to  speak.  The  position 
was  an  embarrassing  one;  she  was  taken  unawares,  and  was 
terrified  at  the  emotion  she  felt.  It  had  never  entered  her 
mind  that  the  old  Prince  could  appear  on  his  son’s  behalf,  and 
she  did  not  know  how  to  meet  him. 

“  I  have  perhaps  been  too  abrupt,”  said  Saracinesca.  “  I  love 
my  son  very  dearly,  and  his  happiness  is  more  to  me  than  what 
remains  of  my  own.  If  from  the  first  you  regard  my  proposi¬ 
tion  as  an  impossible  one,  I  would  spare  him  the  pain  of  a 
humiliation, — I  fear  I  could  not  save  him  from  the  rest,  from  a 
suffering  that  might  drive  him  mad.  It  is  for  this  reason  that 
I  implore  you,  if  you  are  able,  to  give  me  some  answer,  not  that 
I  may  convey  it  to  him,  but  in  order  that  I  may  be  guided  in 
future.  He  cannot  forget  you ;  but  he  has  not  seen  you  for  six 
months.  To  see  you  again  if  he  must  leave  you  for  ever,  would 
only  inflict  a  fresh  wound.”  He  paused,  while  Corona  slowly 
walked  by  his  side. 

“I  do  not  see  why  I  should  conceal  the  truth  from  you,”  she 
said  at  last.  “I  cannot  conceal  it  from  myself.  I  am  not  a 
child  that  I  should  be  ashamed  of  it.  There  is  nothing  wrong 
in  it — no  reason  why  it  should  not  be.  You  are  honest,  too — 
why  should  we  try  to  deceive  ourselves  ?  I  trust  to  your  honour 
to  be  silent,  and  I  own  that  I — that  I  love  your  son.” 

Corona  stood  still  and  turned  her  face  away,  as  the  burning 
blush  rose  to  her  cheeks.  The  answer  she  had  given  was 
characteristic  of  her,  straightforward  and  honest.  She  was  not 
ashamed  of  it,  and  yet  the  words  were  so  new,  so  strange  in  their 
sound,  and  so  strong  in  their  meaning,  that  she  blushed  as  she 
uttered  them.  Saracinesca  was  greatly  surprised,  too,  for  he  had 
expected  some  evasive  turn,  some  hint  that  he  might  bring  Gio¬ 
vanni.  But  his  delight  had  no  bounds. 

“  Duchessa,”  he  said,  “  the  happiest  day  I  can  remember  was 
when  I  brought  home  my  wife  to  Saracinesca.  My  proudest 
day  will  be  that  on  which  my  son  enters  the  same  gates  with 
you  by  his  side.” 

He  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a  courteous 
gesture. 

“  It  will  be  long  before  that — it  must  be  very  long,”  answered 
Corona. 

“It  shall  be  when  you  please,  Madam,  provided  it  is  at  last. 
Meanwhile  we  will  come  down  to-morrow,  and  take  you  to  our 
tower.  Do  you  understand  now  why  I  said  that  I  hoped  you 


238 


SARACIHESCA. 


would  come  again  and  stay  longer?  I  trust  you  have  not 
changed  your  mind  in  regard  to  the  excursion.” 

"  No.  We  will  expect  you  to-morrow  night.  Remember,  I 
have  been  honest  with  you — I  trust  to  you  to  be  silent.” 

"You  have  my  word.  And  now,  with  your  permission,  I  will 
return  to  Saracinesca.  Believe  me,  the  news  that  you  expect 
us  will  be  good  enough  to  tell  Giovanni.” 

"  You  may  greet  him  from  me.  But  will  you  not  rest  awhile 
before  you  ride  back  ?  You  must  be  tired.” 

"No  fear  of  that!”  answered  the  Prince.  "You  have  put 
a  new  man  into  an  old  one.  I  shall  never  tire  of  bearing  the 
news  of  your  greetings.” 

So  the  old  man  left  her,  and  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  up 
the  pass.  But  Corona  remained  for  hours  in  the  vaulted  hall, 
pacing  up  and  down.  It  had  come  too  soon — far  too  soon. 
And  yet,  how  she  had  longed  for  it!  how  she  had  wondered 
whether  it  would  ever  come  at  all ! 

The  situation  was  sufficiently  strange,  too.  Giovanni  had 
once  told  her  of  his  love,  and  she  had  silenced  him.  He  was 
to  tell  her  again,  and  she  was  to  accept  what  he  said.  He  was 
to  ask  her  to  marry  him,  and  her  answer  was  a  foregone  con¬ 
clusion.  It  seemed  as  though  this  greatest  event  of  her  life 
were  planned  to  the  very  smallest  details  beforehand ;  as  though 
she  were  to  act  a  part  which  she  had  studied,  and  which  was 
yet  no  comedy  because  it  was  the  expression  of  her  life’s  truth. 
The  future  had  been,  as  it  were,  prophesied  and  completely 
foretold  to  her,  and  held  no  surprises;  and  yet  it  was  more 
sweet  to  think  of  than  all  the  past  together.  She  wondered 
how  he  would  say  it,  what  his  words  would  be,  how  he  would 
look,  whether  he  would  again  be  as  strangely  violent  as  he  had 
been  that  night  at  the  Palazzo  Frangipani.  She  wondered,  most 
of  all,  how  she  would  answer  him.  But  it  would  be  long  yet. 
There  would  be  many  meetings,  many  happy  days  before  that 
happiest  day  of  all. 

Sister  Gabrielle  saw  a  wonderful  change  in  Corona’s  face  that 
afternoon  when  they  drove  up  the  valley  together,  and  she  re¬ 
marked  what  wonderful  effect  a  little  variety  had  upon  her 
companion’s  spirits — she  could  not  say  upon  her  health,  for 
Corona  seemed  made  of  velvet  and  steel,  so  smooth  and  dark, 
and  yet  so  supple  and  strong.  Corona  smiled  brightly  as  she 
looked  far  up  at  the  beetling  crags  behind  which  Saracinesca 
was  hidden. 

"We  shall  be  up  there  the  day  after  to-morrow,”  she  said. 
"  How  strange  it  will  seem!  ”  And  leaning  back,  her  deep  eyes 
flashed,  and  she  laughed  happily. 

On  the  following  evening,  again,  they  drove  along  the  road 
that  led  up  the  valley.  But  they  had  not  gone  far  when  they 


SARACIKESCA. 


239 


saw  in  the  distance  a  cloud  of  dust,  from  which  in  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  emerged  a  vehicle  drawn  by  three  strong  horses,  and 
driven  by  Giovanni  Saracinesca  himself.  His  father  sat  beside 
him  in  front,  and  a  man  in  livery  was  seated  at  the  back,  with 
a  long  rifle  between  his  knees.  The  vehicle  was  a  kind  of 
double  cart,  capable  of  holding  four  persons,  and  two  servants 
at  the  back. 

In  a  moment  the  two  carriages  met  and  stopped  side  by  side. 
Giovanni  sprang  from  his  seat,  throwing  the  reins  to  his  father, 
who  stood  up  hat  in  hand,  and  bowed  from  where  he  was. 
Corona  held  out  her  hand  to  Giovanni  as  he  stood  bareheaded 
in  the  road  beside  her.  One  long  look  told  all  the  tale ;  there 
could  be  no  words  there  before  the  Sister  and  the  old  Prince, 
but  their  eyes  told  all — the  pain  of  past  separation,  the  joy  of 
two  loving  hearts  that  met  at  last  without  hindrance. 

“  Let  your  servant  drive,  and  get  in  with  us,”  said  Corona, 
who  could  hardly  speak  in  her  excitement.  Then  she  started 
slightly,  and  smiled  in  her  embarrassment.  She  had  continued 
to  hold  Giovanni’s  hand,  unconsciously  leaving  her  fingers  in  his. 

The  Prince’s  groom  climbed  into  the  front  seat,  and  old  Sara¬ 
cinesca  got  down  and  entered  the  landau.  It  was  a  strangely 
silent  meeting,  long  expected  by  the  two  who  so  loved  each 
other — long  looked  for,  but  hardly  realised  now  that  it  had 
come.  The  Prince  was  the  first  to  speak,  as  usual. 

“  You  expected  to  meet  us,  Duchessa?”  he  said;  “we  ex¬ 
pected  to  meet  you.  An  expectation  fulfilled  is  better  than  a 
surprise.  Everything  at  Saracinesca  is  prepared  for  your  re¬ 
ception.  Don  Angelo,  our  priest,  has  been  warned  of  your 
coming,  and  the  boy  who  serves  mass  has  been  washed.  You 
may  imagine  that  a  great  festivity  is  expected.  Giovanni  has 
turned  the  castle  inside  out,  and  had  a  room  hung  entirely  with 
tapestries  of  my  great-grandmother’s  own  working.  He  says 
that  since  the  place  is  so  old,  its  antiquity  should  be  carried 
into  the  smallest  details.” 

Corona  laughed  gaily — she  would  have  laughed  at  anything 
that  day — and  the  old  Prince’s  tone  was  fresh  and  sparkling 
and  merry.  He  had  relieved  the  first  embarrassment  of  the 
situation. 

“  There  have  been  preparations  at  Astrardente  for  your  re¬ 
ception,  too,”  answered  the  Duchessa.  “  There  was  a  difficulty 
of  choice,  as  there  are  about  a  hundred  vacant  rooms  in  the 
house.  The  butler  proposed  to  give  you  a  suite  of  sixteen  to 
pass  the  night  in,  but  I  selected  an  airy  little  nook  in  one  of 
the  wings,  where  you  need  only  go  through  ten  to  get  to  your 
bedroom.” 

“There  is  nothing  like  space,”  said  the  Prince;  “it  enlarges 
the  ideas.” 


240  SARACINESCA. 

“  I  cannot  imagine  what  my  father  would  do  if  his  ideas  were 
extended,”  remarked  Giovanni.  “  Everything  he  imagines  is 
colossal  already.  He  talks  about  tunnelling  the  mountains  for 
my  aqueduct,  as  though  it  were  no  more  trouble  than  to  run 
a  stick  through  a  piece  of  paper.” 

“Your  aqueduct,  indeed!”  exclaimed  his  father.  “I  would 
like  to  know  whose  idea  it  was  ?  ” 

“  I  hear  you  are  working  like  an  engineer  yourself,  Don  Gio¬ 
vanni,”  said  Corona.  “  I  have  a  man  at  work  at  Astrardente 
on  some  plans  of  roads.  Perhaps  some  day  you  could  give  us 
your  advice.” 

Some  day!  How  sweet  the  words  sounded  to  Giovanni  as 
he  sat  opposite  the  woman  he  loved,  bowling  along  through  the 
rich  vine  lands  in  the  cool  of  the  summer  evening! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  opportunity  which  Giovanni  sought  of  being  alone  with 
Corona  was  long  in  coming.  Sister  Gabrielle  retired  immedi¬ 
ately  after  dinner,  and  the  Duchessa  was  left  alone  with  the 
two  men.  Old  Saracinesca  would  gladly  have  left  his  son  with 
the  hostess,  but  the  thing  was  evidently  impossible.  The  man¬ 
ners  of  the  time  would  not  allow  it,  and  the  result  was  that  the 
Prince  spent  the  evening  in  making  conversation  for  two  rather 
indilferent  listeners.  He  tried  to  pick  a  friendly  quarrel  with 
Giovanni,  but  the  latter  was  too  absent-minded  even  to  be  an¬ 
noyed  ;  he  tried  to  excite  the  Duchessa’s  interest,  but  she  only 
smiled  gently,  making  a  remark  from  time  to  time  which  was 
conspicuous  for  its  irrelevancy.  But  old  Saracinesca  was  in  a 
good  humour,  and  he  bore  up  bravely  until  ten  o’clock,  when 
Corona  gave  the  signal  for  retiring.  They  were  to  start  very 
early  in  the  morning,  she  said,  and  she  must  have  rest. 

When  the  two  men  were  alone,  the  Prince  turned  upon  his 
son  in  semi-comic  anger,  and  upbraided  him  with  his  obstinate 
dulness  during  the  evening.  Giovanni  only  smiled  calmly,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

But  on  the  following  morning,  soon  after  six  o’clock,  Gio¬ 
vanni  had  the  supreme  satisfaction  of  installing  Corona  beside 
him  upon  the  driving-seat  of  his  cart,  while  his  father  and  Sister 
Gabrielle  sat  together  behind  him.  The  sun  was  not  yet  above 
the  hills,  and  the  mountain  air  was  keen  and  fresh ;  the  stamp¬ 
ing  of  the  horses  sounded  crisp  and  sharp,  and  their  bells  rang 
merrily  as  they  shook  their  sturdy  necks  and  pricked  their 
short  ears  to  catch  Giovanni’s  voice. 

“  Have  you  forgotten  nothing,  Duchessa  ?  ”  asked  Giovanni, 
gathering  the  reins  in  his  hand. 

“Nothing,  thanks.  I  have  sent  our  things  on  mules — by 


SARACIN  ESC  A. 


241 


the  bridle-path/’  She  smiled  involuntarily  as  she  recalled  her 
adventure,  and  half  turned  her  face  away. 

“  Ah,  yes — the  bridle-path,”  repeated  Giovanni,  as  he  nodded 
to  the  groom  to  stand  clear  of  the  horses’  heads.  In  a  moment 
they  were  briskly  descending  the  winding  road  through  the 
town  of  Astrardente:  the  streets  were  quiet  and  cool,  for  the 
peasants  had  all  gone  to  their  occupations  two  hours  before,  and 
the  children  were  not  yet  turned  loose. 

“  I  never  hoped  to  have  the  honour  of  myself  driving  you  to 
Saracinesca,”  said  Giovanni.  “  It  is  a  wild  place  enough,  in  its 
way.  You  will  be  able  to  fancy  yourself  in  Switzerland.” 

“  I  would  rather  be  in  Italy,”  answered  Corona.  “  I  do  not 
care  for  the  Alps.  Our  own  mountains  are  as  beautiful,  and  are 
not  infested  by  tourists.” 

“You  are  a  tourist  to-day,”  said  Giovanni.  “And  it  has 
pleased  Heaven  to  make  me  your  guide.” 

“  I  will  listen  to  your  explanations  of  the  sights  with  interest.” 

“It  is  a  reversal  of  the  situation,  is  it  not  ?  When  we  last 
met,  it  was  you  who  guided  me,  and  I  humbly  followed  your 
instructions.  I  did  precisely  as  you  told  me.” 

“Had  I  doubted  that  you  would  do  as  I  asked,  I  would  not 
have  spoken,”  answered  Corona. 

“  There  was  one  thing  you  advised  me  to  do  which  I  have 
not  even  attempted.” 

“  What  was  that  ?  ” 

“  You  told  me  to  forget  you.  I  have  spent  six  months  in 
constantly  remembering  you,  and  in  looking  forward  to  this 
moment.  Was  I  wrong?” 

“Of  course,”  replied  the  Duchessa,  with  a  little  laugh. 
“  You  should  by  this  time  have  forgotten  my  existence.  They 
said  you  were  gone  to  the  North  Pole — why  did  you  change 
your  mind  ?  ” 

“  I  followed  my  load-star.  It  led  me  from  Rome  to  Saraci¬ 
nesca  by  the  way  of  Paris.  I  should  have  remained  at  Sara¬ 
cinesca — but  you  also  changed  your  mind.  I  began  to  think 
you  never  would.” 

“How  long  do  you  think  of  staying  up  there?”  asked 
Corona,  to  turn  the  conversation. 

“Just  so  long  as  you  stay  at  Astrardente,”  he  answered. 
“  You  will  not  forbid  me  to  follow  you  to  Rome  ?  ” 

“  How  can  I  prevent  you  if  you  choose  to  do  it  ?  ” 

“By  a  word,  as  you  did  before.” 

“  Ho  you  think  I  would  speak  that  word  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“  I  trust  not.  Why  should  you  cause  me  needless  pain  and 
suffering?  If  it  was  right  then,  it  is  not  right  now.  Besides, 
you  know  me  too  well  to  think  that  I  would  annoy  you  or 
thrust  myself  upon  you.  But  I  will  do  as  you  wish.” 


242 


SARACINESCA. 


“  Thank  you,”  she  said  quietly.  But  she  turned  her  dark 
face  toward  him,  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  very  gently, 
almost  lovingly.  Where  was  the  use  of  trying  to  conceal  what 
would  not  be  hidden  ?  Every  word  he  spoke  told  of  his  un¬ 
changed  love,  although  the  phrases  were  short  and  simple. 
Why  should  she  conceal  what  she  felt  ?  She  knew  it  was  a 
foregone  conclusion.  They  loved  each  other,  and  she  would 
certainly  marry  him  in  the  course  of  a  year.  The  long  pent 
up  forces  of  her  nature  were  beginning  to  assert  themselves; 
she  had  conquered  and  fought  down  her  natural  being  in  the 
effort  to  be  all  things  to  her  old  husband,  to  quench  her  grow¬ 
ing  interest  in  Giovanni,  to  resist  his  declared  love,  to  drive 
him  from  her  in  her  widowhood;  but  now  it  seemed  as  though 
all  obstacles  were  suddenly  removed.  She  saw  clearly  how  well 
she  loved  him,  and  it  seemed  folly  to  try  and  conceal  it.  As 
she  sat  by  his  side  she  was  unboundedly  happy,  as  she  had 
never  been  in  her  life  before :  the  cool  morning  breeze  fanned 
her  cheeks,  and  the  music  of  his  low  voice  soothed  her,  while 
the  delicious  sense  of  rapid  motion  lent  a  thrill  of  pleasure  to 
every  breath  she  drew.  It  was  no  matter  what  she  said;  it  was 
as  though  she  spoke  unconsciously.  All  seemed  predestined 
and  foreplanned  from  all  time,  to  be  acted  out  to  the  end.  The 
past  vanished  slowly  as  a  retreating  landscape.  The  weary 
traveller,  exhausted  with  the  heat  of  the  scorching  Campagna, 
slowly  climbs  the  ascent  towards  Tivoli,  the  haven  of  cool 
waters,  and  pausing  now  and  then  upon  the  path,  looks  back 
and  sees  how  the  dreary  waste  of  undulating  hillocks  beneath 
him  seems  gradually  to  subside  into  a  dim  flat  plain,  while,  in 
the  far  distance,  the  mighty  domes  and  towers  of  Rome  dwindle 
to  an  unreal  mirage  in  the  warm  haze  of  the  western  sky;  then 
advancing  again,  he  feels  the  breath  of  the  mountains  upon 
him,  and  hears  the  fresh  plunge  of  the  cold  cataract,  till  at  last, 
when  his  strength  is  almost  failing,  it  is  renewed  within  him, 
and  the  dust  and  the  heat  of  the  day’s  journey  are  forgotten  in 
the  fulness  of  refreshment.  So  Corona  d’Astrardente,  wearied 
though  not  broken  by  the  fatigues  and  the  troubles  and  the 
temptations  of  the  past  five  years,  seemed  suddenly  to  be  taken 
up  and  borne  swiftly  through  the  gardens  of  an  earthly  para¬ 
dise,  where  there  was  neither  care  nor  temptation,  and  where, 
in  the  cool  air  of  a  new  life,  the  one  voice  she  loved  was  ever 
murmuring  gentle  things  to  her  willing  ear. 

As  the  road  began  to  ascend,  sweeping  round  the  base  of  the 
mountain  and  upwards  by  even  gradations  upon  its  southern 
flank,  the  sun  rose  higher  in  the  heavens,  and  the  locusts  broke 
into  their  summer  song  among  the  hedges  with  that  even,  long- 
drawn,  humming  note,  so  sweet  to  southern  ears.  But  Corona 
did  not  feel  the  heat,  nor  notice  the  dust  upon  the  way;  she 


SARACINESCA. 


243 


was  in  a' new  state,  wherein  such  things  could  not  trouble  her. 
The  first  embarrassment  of  a  renewed  intimacy  was  fast  disap¬ 
pearing,  and  she  talked  easily  to  Giovanni  of  many  things,  re¬ 
viewing  past  scenes  and  speaking  of  mutual  acquaintances, 
turning  the  conversation  when  it  concerned  Giovanni  or  herself 
too  directly,  yet  ever  and  again  coming  back  to  that  sweet 
ground  which  was  no  longer  dangerous  now.  At  last,  at  a  turn 
in  the  road,  the  grim  towers  of  ancient  Saracinesca  loomed  in 
the  distance,  and  the  carriage  entered  a  vast  forest  of  chestnut 
trees,  shady  and  cool  after  the  sunny  ascent.  So  they  reached 
the  castle,  and  the  sturdy  horses  sprang  wildly  forward  up  the 
last  incline  till  their  hoofs  struck  noisily  upon  the  flagstones  of 
the  bridge,  and  with  a  rush  and  a  plunge  they  dashed  under 
the  black  archway,  and  halted  in  the  broad  court  beyond. 

Corona  was  surprised  at  the  size  of  the  old  fortress.  It  seemed 
an  endless  irregular  mass  of  towers  and  buildings,  all  of  rough 
grey  stone,  surrounded  by  battlements  and  ramparts,  kept  in 
perfect  repair,  but  destitute  of  any  kind  of  ornament  whatever. 
It  might  have  been  even  now  a  military  stronghold,  and  it  was 
evident  that  there  were  traditions  of  precision  and  obedience 
within  its  walls  which  would  have  done  credit  to  any  barracks. 
The  dominant  temper  of  the  master  made  itself  felt  at  every 
turn,  and  the  servants  moved  quickly  and  silently  about  their 
duties.  There  was  something  intensely  attractive  to  Corona  in 
the  air  of  strength  that  pervaded  the  place,  and  Giovanni  had 
never  seemed  to  her  so  manly  and  so  much  in  his  element  as 
under  the  grey  walls  of  his  ancestral  home.  The  place,  too, 
was  associated  in  history  with  so  many  events, — the  two  men, 
Leone  and  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  stood  there  beside  her,  where 
their  ancestors  of  the  same  names  had  stood  nearly  a  thousand 
years  before,  their  strong  dark  faces  having  the  same  character¬ 
istics  that  for  centuries  had  marked  their  race,  features  familiar 
to  Romans  by  countless  statues  and  pictures,  as  the  stones  of 
Rome  themselves — but  for  a  detail  of  dress,  it  seemed  to  Corona 
as  though  she  had  been  suddenly  transported  back  to  the  thir¬ 
teenth  century.  The  idea  fascinated  her.  The  two  men  led 
her  up  the  broad  stone  staircase,  and  ushered  her  and  Sister 
Gabrielle  into  the  apartments  of  state  which  had  been  prepared 
for  them. 

“  We  have  done  our  best,”  said  the  Prince,  “but  it  is  long 
since  we  have  entertained  ladies  at  Saracinesca.” 

“It  is  magnificent!”  exclaimed  Corona,  as  she  entered  the 
ante-chamber.  The  walls  were  hung  from  end  to  end  with 
priceless  tapestries,  and  the  stone  floor  was  covered  with  long 
eastern  carpets.  Corona  paused. 

“You  must  show  us  all  over  the  castle  by-and-by,”  she  said. 

“  Giovanni  will  show  you  everything,”  answered  the  Prince. 


244 


SARACINESCA. 


“  If  it  pleases  you,  we  will  breakfast  in  half-an-hour.”  He 
turned  away  with  his  son,  and  left  the  two  ladies  to  refresh 
themselves  before  the  mid-day  meal. 

Giovanni  kept  his  word,  and  spared  his  guests  no  detail  of 
the  vast  stronghold,  until  at  last  poor  Sister  Gabrielle  could  go 
no  farther.  Giovanni  had  anticipated  that  she  would  be  tired, 
and  with  the  heartlessness  of  a  lover  seeking  his  opportunity,  he 
had  secretly  longed  for  the  moment  when  she  should  be  obliged 
to  stop. 

“  You  have  not  yet  seen  the  view  from  the  great  tower,”  he 
said.  “  It  is  superb,  and  this  is  the  very  best  hour  for  it.  Are 
you  tired,  Duchessa?” 

“  No — I  am  never  tired,”  answered  Corona. 

“  Why  not  go  with  Giovanni  ?  ”  suggested  the  Prince.  “  I  will 
stay  with  Sister  Gabrielle,  who  has  nearly  exhausted  herself 
with  seeing  our  sights.” 

Corona  hesitated.  The  idea  of  being  alone  with  Giovanni  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  delightful,  but  somehow  it  did  not 
seem  altogether  fitting  for  her  to  he  wandering  over  the  castle 
with  him.  On  the  other  hand,  to  refuse  would  seem  almost  an 
affectation :  she  was  not  in  Rome,  where  her  every  movement 
was  a  subject  for  remark;  moreover,  she  was  not  only  a  married 
woman,  but  a  widow,  and  she  had  known  Giovanni  for  years — 
it  would  be  ridiculous  to  refuse. 

“  Very  well,”  said  she.  “  Let  us  see  the  view  before  it  is  too 
late.” 

Sister  Gabrielle  and  old  Saracinesca  sat  down  on  a  stone  seat 
upon  the  rampart  to  wait,  and  the  Duchessa  disappeared  with 
Giovanni  through  the  low  door  that  led  into  the  great  tower. 

“What  a  wonderful  woman  you  are !”  exclaimed  Giovanni, 
as  they  reached  the  top  of  the  winding  stair,  which  was  indeed 
broader  than  the  staircase  of  many  great  houses  in  Rome. 
“You  seem  to  be  never  tired.” 

“No — I  am  very  strong,”  answered  Corona,  with  a  smile. 
She  was  not  even  out  of  breath.  “What  a  wonderful  view!” 
she  exclaimed,  as  they  emerged  upon  the  stone  platform  at  the 
top  of  the  tower.  Giovanni  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The  two 
stood  together  and  looked  far  out  at  the  purple  mountains  to 
eastward  that  caught  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  high  up  above  the 
shadows  of  the  valley;  and  then  looking  down,  they  saw  the 
Prince  and  the  Sister  a  hundred  feet  below  them  upon  the 
rampart. 

Both  were  thinking  of  the  same  thing:  three  days  ago,  their 
meeting  had  seemed  infinitely  far  off,  a  thing  dreamed  of  and 
hoped  for — and  now  they  were  standing  alone  upon  the  topmost 
turret  of  Giovanni’s  house,  familiar  with  each  other  by  a  long 
day’s  conversation,  feeling  as  though  they  had  never  been  parted, 


SARACINESCA. 


245 


feeling  also  that  most  certainly  they  would  not  be  parted 
again. 

“It  is  very  strange,”  said  Giovanni,  “how  things  happen  in 
this  world,  and  how  little  we  ever  know  of  what  is  before  us. 
Last  week  I  wondered  whether  I  should  ever  see  you — now  I 
cannot  imagine  not  seeing  you.  Is  it  not  strange  ?” 

“Yes,”  answered  Corona,  in  a  low  voice. 

“That,  yesterday,  we  should  have  seemed  parted  by  an  insur¬ 
mountable  barrier,  and  that  to-day - ”  he  stopped.  “  Oh,  if 

to-day  could  only  last  for  ever!”  he  exclaimed,  suddenly. 

Corona  gazed  out  upon  the  purple  hills  in  silence,  but  her 
face  caught  some  of  the  radiance  of  the  distant  glow,  and  her 
dark  eyes  had  strange  lights  in  them.  She  could  not  have  pre¬ 
vented  him  from  speaking;  she  had  loosed  the  bonds  that  had 
held  her  life  so  long;  the  anchor  was  up,  and  the  breath  of  love 
fanned  the  sails,  and  gently  bore  the  craft  in  which  she  trusted 
out  to  seaward  over  the  fair  water.  In  seeing  him  she  had  re¬ 
signed  herself  to  him,  and  she  could  not  again  get  the  mastery 
if  she  would.  It  had  come  too  soon,  but  it  was  sweet. 

“  And  why  not  ?  ”  he  said,  very  softly.  “  Why  should  it  not 
remain  so  for  ever— till  our  last  breath  ?  Why  will  you  not  let 
it  last  ?  ” 

Still  she  was  silent;  but  the  tears  gathered  slowly  in  her  eyes, 
and  welled  over  and  lay  upon  her  velvet  cheek  like  dewdrops  on 
the  leaves  of  a  soft  dark  tulip.  Giovanni  saw  them,  and  knew 
that  they  were  the  jewels  which  crowned  his  life. 

“  You  will,”  he  said,  his  broad  brown  hand  gently  covering 
her  small  fingers  and  taking  them  in  his.  “You  will — I  know 
that  you  will.” 

She  said  nothing,  and  though  she  at  first  made  a  slight  move¬ 
ment — not  of  resistance,  but  of  timid  reluctance,  utterly  unlike 
herself — she  suffered  him  to  hold  her  hand.  He  drew  closer  to 
her,  himself  more  diffident  in  the  moment  of  success  than  he 
had  ever  been  when  he  anticipated  failure;  she  was  so  unlike 
any  woman  he  had  ever  known  before.  Very  gently  he  put  his 
arm  about  her,  and  drew  her  to  him. 

“  My  beloved — at  last,”  he  whispered,  as  her  head  sank  upon 
his  shoulder. 

Then  with  a  sudden  movement  she  sprang  to  her  height,  and 
for  one  instant  gazed  upon  him.  Her  whole  being  was  trans¬ 
figured  in  the  might  of  her  passion :  her  dark  face  was  lumi¬ 
nously  pale,  her  lips  almost  white,  and  from  her  eyes  there  seemed 
to  flash  a  blazing  fire.  For  one  instant  she  gazed  upon  him, 
and  then  her  arms  went  round  his  neck,  and  she  clasped  him 
fiercely  to  her  breast. 

“  Ah,  Giovanni,”  she  cried,  passionately,  “  you  do  not  know 
what  love  means !  ” 


246 


SARACmESCA. 


A  moment  later  her  arms  dropped  from  him;  she  turned  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  leaning  against  the  high  stone  par¬ 
apet  of  the  tower.  She  was  not  weeping,  but  her  face  was  white, 
and  her  bosom  heaved  with  quick  and  strong-drawn  breath. 

Giovanni  went  to  her  side  and  took  her  strongly  in  his  right 
arm,  and  again  her  head  rested  upon  his  shoulder. 

"It  is  too  soon — too  soon,”  she  murmured.  "But  how  can  I 
help  it  ?  I  love  you  so  that  there  is  no  counting  of  time.  It 
seems  years  since  we  met  last  night,  and  I  thought  it  would  be 
years  before  I  told  you.  Oh,  Giovanni,  I  am  so  happy  !  Is  it 
possible  that  you  love  me  as  I  love  you  ?  ” 

It  is  a  marvellous  thing  to  see  how  soon  two  people  who  love 
each  other  learn  the  gentle  confidence  that  only  love  can  bring. 
A  few  moments  later  Giovanni  and  Corona  were  slowly  pacing 
the  platform,  and  his  arm  was  about  her  waist  and  her  hand  in 
his. 

"  Do  you  know,”  she  was  saying,  "  I  used  to  wonder  whether 
you  would  keep  your  word,  and  never  try  to  see  me.  The  days 
were  so  long  at  Astrardente.” 

"  Not  half  so  long  as  at  Saracinesca,”  he  answered.  "  I  was 
going  to  call  my  aqueduct  the  Bridge  of  Sighs;  I  will  christen 
it  now  the  Spring  of  Love.” 

“  I  must  go  and  see  it  to-morrow,”  said  she. 

“  Or  the  next  day - ” 

"  The  next  day !  ”  she  exclaimed,  with  a  happy  laugh.  "  Do 
you  think  I  am  going  to  stay - ” 

“  For  ever,”  interrupted  Giovanni.  "We  have  a  priest  here, 
you  know, — he  can  marry  us  to-morrow,  and  then  you  need 
never  go  away.” 

Corona’s  face  grew  grave. 

"  We  must  not  talk  of  that  yet,”  she  said,  gently,  "even  in 
jest.” 

"  No;  you  are  right.  Forgive  me,”  he  answered;  "  I  forget 
many  things — it  seems  to  me  I  have  forgotten  everything,  ex¬ 
cept  that  I  love  you.” 

"  Giovanni,” — she  lingered  on  the  name, — "  Giovanni,  we 
must  tell  your  father  at  once.” 

"  Are  you  willing  I  should  ?  ”  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Of  course — he  ought  to  know;  and  Sister  Gabrielle  too. 
But  no  one  else  must  be  told.  There  must  be  no  talk  of  this  in 
Rome  until — until  next  year.” 

"We  will  stay  in  the  country  until  then,  shall  we  not?” 
asked  Giovanni,  anxiously.  "  It  seems  to  me  so  much  better. 
We  can  meet  here,  and  nobody  will  talk.  I  will  go  and  live  in 
the  town  at  Astrardente,  and  play  the  engineer,  and  build  your 
roads  for  you.” 

"  I  hardly  know,”  said  Corona,  with  a  doubtful  smile.  "  You 


SARACINESCA. 


247 


could  not  do  that.  But  you  may  come  and  spend  the  day  once 
— in  a  week,  perhaps.” 

“  We  will  arrange  all  that,”  answered  Giovanni,  laughing. 
“  If  you  think  I  can  exist  by  only  seeing  you  once  a  week — 
well,  you  do  not  know  me.” 

“  We  shall  see,”  returned  Corona,  laughing  too.  “  By  the 
bye,  how  long  have  we  been  here  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  know,”  said  Giovanni;  “but  the  view  is  magnifi¬ 
cent,  is  it  not  ?  ” 

“Enchanting,”  she  replied,  looking  into  his  eyes.  Then 
suddenly  the  blood  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  “  Oh,  Giovanni,” 
she  said,  “  how  could  I  do  it  ?  ” 

“  I  should  have  died  if  you  had  not,”  he  answered,  and 
clasped  her  once  more  in  his  arms. 

“  Come,”  said  she,  “  let  us  be  going  down.  It  is  growing  late.” 

When  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  tower,  they  found  the 
Prince  walking  the  rampart  alone.  Sister  Gabrielle  was  afraid 
of  the  evening  air,  and  had  retired  into  the  house.  Old 
Saracinesca  faced  them  suddenly.  He  looked  like  an  old 
lion,  his  thick  white  hair  and  beard  bristling  about  his  dark 
features. 

“  My  father,”  said  Giovanni,  coming  forward,  “  the  Duchessa 
d’Astrardente  has  consented  to  be  my  wife.  I  crave  your  bless- 
ing.” 

The  old  man  started,  and  then  stood  stock-still.  His  son 
had  fairly  taken  his  breath  away,  for  he  had  not  expected  the 
news  for  three  or  four  months  to  come.  Then  he  advanced 
and  took  Corona’s  hand,  and  kissed  it. 

“  Madam,”  he  said,  “  you  have  done  my  son  an  honour  which 
extends  to  myself  and  to  every  Saracinesca,  dead,  living,  and  to 
come.” 

Then  he  laid  Corona’s  hand  in  Giovanni’s,  and  held  his  own 
upon  them  both. 

“  God  bless  you,”  he  said,  solemnly;  and  as  Corona  bent  her 
proud  head,  he  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips.  Then  he 
embraced  Giovanni,  and  his  joy  broke  out  in  wild  enthusiasm. 

“  Ha,  my  children,”  he  cried,  “  there  has  not  been  such  a 
couple  as  you  are  for  generations — there  has  not  been  such 
good  news  told  in  these  old  walls  since  they  have  stood  here. 
We  will  illuminate  the  castle,  the  whole  town,  in  your  honour 
— we  will  ring  the  bells  and  have  a  Te  Deum  sung — we  will 
have  such  a  festival  as  was  never  seen  before — we  will  go  to 
Rome  to-morrow  and  celebrate  the  espousal — we  will ” 

“  Softly,  padre  mio ,”  interrupted  Giovanni.  “  No  one  must 
know  as  yet.  You  must  consider - ” 

“  Consider  what  ?  consider  the  marriage?  Of  course  we  will 
consider  it,  as  soon  as  you  please.  You  shall  have  such  a  wed- 


248 


SARACINESCA. 


ding  as  was  never  heard  of — you  shall  be  married  by  the  Car¬ 
dinal  Archpriest  of  Saint  Peter’s,  by  the  Holy  Father  himself. 
The  whole  country  shall  ring  with  it.” 

It  was  with  difficulty  Giovanni  succeeded  in  calming  his 
father’s  excitement,  and  in  recalling  to  his  mind  the  circum¬ 
stances  which  made  it  necessary  to  conceal  the  engagement  for 
the  present.  But  at  last  the  old  man  reluctantly  consented, 
and  returned  to  a  quieter  humour.  For  some  time  the  three 
continued  to  pace  the  stone  rampart. 

“  This  is  a  case  of  arrant  cruelty  to  a  man  of  my  temper,” 
said  the  Prince.  “  To  be  expected  to  behave  like  an  ordinary 
creature,  with  grins  and  smiles  and  decent  paces,  when  I  have 
just  heard  what  I  have  longed  to  hear  for  years.  But  I  will 
•revenge  myself  by  making  a  noise  about  it  by-and-by.  I  will 
concoct  schemes  for  your  wedding,  and  dream  of  nothing  but 
illuminations  and  decorations.  You  shall  be  Prince  of  Sant’ 
Ilario,  Giovanni,  as  I  was  before  my  father  died;  and  I  will 
give  you  that  estate  outright,  and  the  palace  in  the  Corso  to 
live  in.” 

“  Perhaps  we  might  live  in  my  palace,”  suggested  Corona. 
It  seemed  strange  to  her  to  be  discussing  her  own  marriage,  but 
it  was  necessary  to  humour  the  old  Prince. 

“  Of  course,”  he  said.  “  I  forgot  all  about  it.  You  have 
places  enough  to  live  in.  One  forgets  that  you  will  in  the  end 
be  the  richest  couple  in  Italy.  Ha!”  he  cried,  in  sudden 
enthusiasm,  “the  Saracinesca  are  not  dead  yet!  They  are 
greater  than  ever — and  our  lands  here  so  near  together,  too. 
We  will  build  a  new  road  to  Astrardente,  and  when  you  are 
married  you  shall  be  the  first  to  drive  over  it  from  Astrardente 
here.  We  will  do  all  kinds  of  things — we  will  tunnel  the 
mountain !  ” 

“  I  am  sure  you  will  do  that  in  the  end,”  said  Giovanni, 
laughing. 

“  Well — let  us  go  to  dinner,”  answered  his  father.  “  It  has 
grown  quite  dark  since  we  have  been  talking,  and  we  shall  be 
falling  over  the  edge  if  we  are  not  careful.” 

“  I  will  go  and  tell  Sister  Gabrielle  before  dinner,”  said  Co¬ 
rona  to  Giovanni. 

So  they  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  apartment,  and  she  went 
in.  She  found  the  Sister  in  an  inner  room,  with  a  book  of  de¬ 
votions  in  her  hand. 

“  Pray  for  me,  my  Sister,”  she  said,  quietly.  “  I  have  re¬ 
solved  upon  a  great  step.  I  am  going  to  be  married  again.” 

Sister  Gabrielle  looked  up,  and  a  quiet  smile  stole  over  her 
thin  face. 

“  It  is  soon,  my  friend,”  she  said.  “  It  is  soon  to  think  of 
that.  But  perhaps  you  are  right — is  it  the  young  Prince  ?  ” 


SARACINESCA. 


249 


“  Yes,”  answered  Corona,  and  sank  into  a  deep  tapestried 
chair.  “  It  is  soon  I  know  well.  But  it  has  been  long — I  have 
struggled  hard — I  love  him  very  much — so  much,  you  do  not 
know !  ” 

The  Sister  sighed  faintly,  and  came  and  took  her  hand. 

“  It  is  right  that  you  should  marry,”  she  said,  gently. 
“You  are  too  young,  too  famously  beautiful,  too  richly  en¬ 
dowed,  to  lead  the  life  you  have  led  at  Astrardente  these  many 
months.” 

“  It  is  not  that,”  said  Corona,  an  expression  of  strange 
beauty  illuminating  her  lovely  face.  “  Not  that  I  am  young, 
beautiful  as  you  say,  if  it  is  so,  or  endowed  with  riches — those 
reasons  are  nothing.  It  is  this  that  tells  me,”  she  whispered, 
pressing  her  left  hand  to  her  heart.  “  When  one  loves  as  I 
love,  it  is  right.” 

“  Indeed  it  is,”  assented  the  good  Sister.  “  And  I  think  you 
have  chosen  wisely.  When  will  you  be  married  ?  ” 

“  Hardly  before  next  summer — I  can  hardly  think  con¬ 
nectedly  yet — it  has  been  very  sudden.  I  knew  I  should 
marry  him  in  the  end,  but  I  never  thought  I  could  consent 
so  soon.  Oh,  Sister  Gabrielle,  you  are  so  good — were  you  never 
in  love  ?  ” 

The  Sister  was  silent,  and  looked  away. 

“No — of  course  you  cannot  tell  me,”  continued  Corona; 
“  but  it  is  such  a  wonderful  thing.  It  makes  days  seem  like 
hundreds  of  years,  or  makes  them  pass  in  a  flash  of  light,  in  a 
second.  It  oversets  every  idea  of  time,  and  plays  with  one’s 
resolutions  as  the  wind  with  a  feather.  If  once  it  gets  the 
mastery  of  one,  it  crowds  a  lifetime  of  pain  and  pleasure  into 
one  day;  it  never  leaves  one  for  a  moment.  I  cannot  explain 
love — it  is  a  wonderful  thing.” 

“My  dear  friend,”  said  the  Sister,  “the  explanation  of  love 
is  life.” 

“But  the  end  of  it  is  not  death.  It  cannot  be,”  continued 
Corona,  earnestly.  “  It  must  last  for  ever  and  ever.  It  must 
grow  better  and  purer  and  stronger,  until  it  is  perfect  in  heaven 
at  last :  but  where  is  the  use  of  trying  to  express  such  things  ?  ” 

“  I  think  it  is  enough  to  feel  them,”  said  Sister  Gabrielle. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

The  summer  season  ripened  into  autumn,  and  autumn  again 
turned  to  winter,  and  Rome  was  once  more  full.  The  talk  of 
society  turned  frequently  upon  the  probability  of  the  match 
between  the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente  and  Giovanni  Saracinesca; 
and  when  at  last,  three  weeks  before  Lent,  the  engagement  was 
made  known,  there  was  a  general  murmur  of  approbation.  It 


250 


SARACItfESCA. 


seemed  as  though  the  momentous  question  of  Corona’s  life 
which  had  for  years  agitated  the  gossips,  were  at  last  to  be 
settled :  every  one  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  her  marriage 
with  old  Astrardente  as  a  temporary  affair,  seeing  that  he  cer¬ 
tainly  could  not  live  long,  and  speculation  in  regard  to  her 
future  had  been  nearly  as  common  during  his  lifetime  as  it  was 
alter  his  death.  One  of  the  duties  most  congenial  to  society, 
and  one  which  it  never  fails  to  perform  conscientiously,  is  that 
judicial  astrology,  whereby  it  forecasts  the  issue  of  its  neigh¬ 
bour  s  doings.  Everybody’s  social  horoscope  must  be  cast  by 
the  circle  of  five-o’clock-tea-drinking  astro-sociologists,  and, 
generally  speaking,  their  predictions  are  not  far  short  of  the 
truth,  for  society  knoweth  its  own  bitterness,  and  is  uncom¬ 
monly  quick  in  the  diagnosis  of  its  own  state  of  health. 

When  it  was  announced  that  Corona  was  to  marry  Giovanni 
after  Easter,  society  looked  and  saw  that  the  arrangement  was 
good.  There  was  not  one  dissenting  voice  heard  in  the  uni¬ 
versal  applause.  Corona  had  behaved  with  exemplary  decency 
during  the  year  of  her  mourning— had  lived  a  life  of  religious 
retirement  upon  her  estates  in  the  sole  company  of  a  Sister  of 
Charity,  had  given  no  cause  for  scandal  in  any  way.  Every¬ 
body  aspired  to  like  her— that  is  to  say,  to  be  noticed  by  her; 
but  with  one  exception,  she  had  caused  no  jealousy  nor  ill-feel- 
ing  by  her  indifference,  for  no  one  had  ever  heard  her  say  an 
unkind  word  concerning  anybody  she  knew.  Donna  Tullia 
had  her  own  reasons  for  hating  Corona,  and  perhaps  the  world 
suspected  them;  but  people  did  not  connect  the  noisy  Donna 
Tullia,  full  of  animal  spirits  and  gay  silly  talk,  with  the  idea  of 
serious  hatred,  much  less  with  the  execution  of  any  scheme  of 
revenge. 

Indeed  Madame  Mayer  had  not  spent  the  summer  and  autumn 
m  nursing  her  wrath  against  Corona.  She  had  travelled  with 
the  old  Countess,  her  companion,  and  several  times  Ugo  del 
Ferice  had  appeared  suddenly  at  the  watering-places  which  she 
had  selected  for  her  temporary  residence.  From  time  to  time 
he  gave  her  news  of  mutual  friends,  which  she  repaid  consci¬ 
entiously  with  interesting  accounts  of  the  latest  scandals.  They 
were  a  congenial  pair,  and  Ugo  felt  that  by  his  constant  atten¬ 
tion  to  her  wishes,  and  by  her  never- varying  willingness  to 
accept  his  service,,  he  had  obtained  a  hold  upon  her  intimacy 
which,  in  the  ensuing  winter,  would  give  him  a  decided  advan¬ 
tage  over  all  competitors  in  the  field.  She  believed  that  she 
might  have  married  half-a-dozen  times,  and  that  with  her  for¬ 
tune  she  could  easily  have  made  a  very  brilliant  match;  she 
even  thought  that  she  could  have  married  Valdarno,  who  was 
very  good-natured;  but  her  attachment  to  Giovanni,  and  the 
expectations  she  had  so  long  entertained  in  regard  to  him,  had 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


251 


prevented  her  from  showing  any  marked  preference  for  others; 
and  while  she  was  hesitating,  Del  Ferice,  by  his  superior  skill, 
had  succeeded  in  ifiaking  himself  indispensable  to  her — a 
success  the  more  remarkable  that,  in  spite  of  his  gifts  and  the 
curious  popularity  he  enjoyed,  he  was  by  far  the  least  desirable 
man  of  her  acquaintance  from  the  matrimonial  point  of  view. 

But  when  Donna  Tullia  again  met  Giovanni  in  the  world, 
the  remembrance  of  her  wrongs  revived  her  anger  against  him, 
and  the  news  of  his  engagement  to  the  Astrardente  brought 
matters  to  a  climax.  In  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  both 
her  jealousy  and  her  anger  were  illuminated  by  the  light  of  a 
righteous  wrath.  She  knew,  or  thought  she  knew,  that  Don 
Giovanni  was  already  married.  She  had  no  proof  that  the 
peasant  wife  mentioned  in  the  certificate  was  alive,  but.  there 
was  nothing  either  to  show  that  she  was  dead.  Even  in  the 
latter  case  it  was  a  scandalous  thing  that  he  should  marry 
again  without  informing  Corona  of  the  circumstances  of  his 
past  life,  and  Donna  Tullia  felt  an  inner  conviction  that  he 
had  told  the  Duchessa  nothing  of  the  matter.  The  latter  was 
such  a  proud  woman,  that  she  would  be  horrified  at  the  idea  of 
uniting  herself  to  a  man  who  had  been  the  husband  of  a  peasant. 

Madame  Mayer  remembered  her  solemn  promise  to  Del 
Ferice,  and  feared  to  act  without  his  consent.  An  hour  after 
she  had  heard  the  news  of  the  engagement,  she  sent  for  him  to 
come  to  her  immediately.  To  her  astonishment  and  dismay, 
her  servant  brought  back  word  that  he  had  suddenly  gone  to 
Naples  upon  urgent  business.  This  news  made  her  pause;  but 
while  the  messenger  had  been  gone  to  Del  Ferice’s  house, 
Donna  Tullia  had  been  anticipating  and  going  over  in  her 
mind  the  scene  which  would  ensue  when  she  told  Corona  the 
secret.  Donna  Tullia  was  a  very  sanguine  woman,  and  the 
idea  of  at  last  being  revenged  for  all  the  slights  she  had  re¬ 
ceived  worked  suddenly  upon  her  brain,  so  that  as  she  paced 
her  drawing-room  in  expectation  of  the  arrival  of  Del  Ferice, 
she  entirely  acted  out  in  her  imagination  the  circumstances  of 
the  approaching  crisis,  the  blood  beat  hotly  in  her  temples,  and 
she  lost  all  sense  of  prudence  in  the  delicious  anticipation  of 
violent  words.  Del  Ferice  had  cruelly  calculated  upon  her 
temperament,  and  he  had  hoped  that  in  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  she  would  lose  her  head,  and  irrevocably  commit  her¬ 
self  to  him  by  the  betrayal  of  the  secret.  This  was  precisely 
what  occurred.  On  being  told  that  he  was  out  of  town,  she 
could  no  longer  contain  herself,  and  with  a  sudden  determina¬ 
tion  to  risk  anything  blindly,  rather  than  to  forego  the  pleasure 
and  the  excitement  she  had  been  meditating,  she  ordered  her 
carriage  and  drove  to  the  Palazzo  Astrardente. 

Corona  was  surprised  at  the  unexpected  visit.  She  was  her- 


252 


SAKACINESCA. 


self  on  the  point  of  going  out,  and  was  standing  in  her  boudoir, 
drawing  on  her  black  gloves  before  the  fire,  while  her  furs  lay 
upon  a  chair  at  her  side.  She  wondered  why  Donna  Tullia 
called,  and  it  was  in  part  her  curiosity  which  induced  her  to 
receive  her  visit.  Donna  Tullia,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  the 
terrible  news  she  was  about  to  disclose,  entered  the  room 
quickly,  and  remained  standing  before  the  Duchessa  with  a 
semi-tragic  air  that  astonished  Corona. 

“How  do  you  do,  Donna  Tullia?”  said  the  latter,  putting 
out  her  hand. 

“  I  have  come  to  speak  to  yon  upon  a  very  serious  matter,” 
answered  her  visitor,  without  noticing  the  greeting. 

Corona  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  but  not  being  easily  dis¬ 
concerted,  she  quietly  motioned  to  Donna  Tullia  to  sit  down, 
and  installed  herself  in  a  chair  opposite  to  her. 

“  I  have  just  heard  the  news  that  you  are  to  marry  Don  Gio¬ 
vanni  Saracinesca,”  said  Madame  Mayer.  “  You  will  pardon 
me  the  interest  I  take  in  you ;  but  is  it  true  ?  ” 

“  It  is  quite  true,”  answered  Corona. 

“  It  is  in  connection  with  your  marriage  that  I  wish  to  speak, 
Duchessa.  I  implore  you  to  reconsider  your  decision.” 

“  And  why,  if  you  please  ?  ”  asked  Corona,  raising  her  black 
eyebrows,  and  fixing  her  haughty  gaze  upon  her  visitor. 

“I  could  tell  you — I  would  rather  not,”  answered  Donna 
Tullia,  unabashed,  for  her  blood  was  up.  “  I  could  tell  you — 
but  I  beseech  you  not  to  ask  me.  Only  consider  the  matter 
again,  I  beg  you.  It  is  very  serious.  Nothing  but  the  great 
interest  I  feel  in  you,  and  my  conviction - ” 

“  Donna  Tullia,  your  conduct  is  so  extraordinary,”  inter¬ 
rupted  Corona,  looking  at  her  curiously,  “that  I  am  tempted 
to  believe  you  are  mad.  I  must  beg  you  to  explain  what  you 
mean  by  your  words.” 

“  Ah,  no,”  answered  Madame  Mayer.  “  You  do  me  injustice. 
I  am  not  mad,  but  I  would  save  you  from  the  most  horrible 
danger.” 

“  Again  I  say,  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  will  not  be  trifled  with 
in  this  way,”  said  the  Duchessa,  who  would  have  been  more 
angry  if  she  had  been  less  astonished,  but  whose  temper  was 
rapidly  rising. 

“  I  am  not  trifling  with  you,”  returned  Donna  Tullia.  “  I 
am  imploring  you  to  think  before  you  act,  before  you  marry 
Don  Giovanni.  You  cannot  think  that  I  would  venture  to 
intrude  upon  you  without  the  strongest  reasons.  I  am  in 
earnest.” 

“  Then,  in  heaven’s  name,  speak  out !  ”  cried  Corona,  losing 
all  patience.  “I  presume  that  if  this  is  a  warning,  you  have 
some  grounds,  you  have  some  accusation  to  make  against  Don 


SARACINESCA. 


253 


Giovanni.  Have  the  goodness  to  state  what  you  have  to  say, 
and  be  brief.” 

“  I  will,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  and  she  paused  a  moment, her  face 
growingred  with  excitement,  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkling  disagree¬ 
ably.  “  You  cannot  marry  Don  Giovanni,”  she  said  at  length, 
“  because  there  is  an  insurmountable  impediment  in  the  way.” 

“  What  is  it?”  asked  Corona,  controlling  her  anger. 

“  He  is  already  married!  ”  hissed  Donna  Tullia. 

Corona  turned  a  little  pale,  and  started  back.  But  in  an 
instant  her  colour  returned,  and  she  broke  into  a  low  laugh. 

“  You  are  certainly  insane,”,  she  said,  eyeing  Madame  Mayer 
suspiciously.  It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  shake  her  faith  in 
the  man  she  loved.  Donna  Tullia  was  disappointed  at  the 
effect  she  had  produced.  She  was  a  clever  woman  in  her  way, 
but  she  did  not  understand  how  to  make  the  best  of  the  situa¬ 
tion.  She  saw  that  she  was  simply  an  object  of  curiosity,  and 
that  Corona  seriously  believed  her  mind  deranged.  She  was 
frightened,  and,  in  order  to  help  herself,  she  plunged  deeper. 

“  You  may  call  me  mad,  if  you  please,”  she  replied,  angrily. 
“  I  tell  you  it  is  true.  Don  Giovanni  was  married  on  the  19th 
of  June  1863,  at  Aquila,  in  the  Abruzzi,  to  a  woman  called 
Felice  Baldi — whoever  she  may  have  been.  The  register  is 
extant,  and  the  duplicate  of  the  marriage  certificate.  I  have 
seen  the  copies  attested  by  a  notary.  I  tell  you  it  is  true,”  she 
continued,  her  voice  rising  to  a  harsh  treble;  “  you  are  engaged 
to  marry  a  man  who  has  a  wife — a  peasant  woman — somewhere 
in  the  mountains.” 

Corona  rose  from  her  seat  and  put  out  her  hand  to  ring  the 
bell.  She  was  pale,  but  not  excited.  She  believed  Donna 
Tullia  to  be  insane,  perhaps  dangerous,  and  she  calmly  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  protect  herself  by  calling  for  assistance. 

“  Either  you  are  mad,  or  you  mean  what  you  say,”  she  said, 
keeping  her  eyes  upon  the  angry  woman  before  her.  “  You 
will  not  leave  this  house  except  in  charge  of  my  physician,  if 
you  are  mad;  and  if  you  mean  what  you  say,  you  shall  not  go 
until  you  have  repeated  your  words  to  Don  Giovanni  Sara- 
cinesca  himself, — no,  do  not  start  or  try  to  escape — it  is  of  no 
use.  I  am  very  sudden  and  violent — beware !  ” 

Donna  Tullia  bit  her  red  lip.  She  was  beginning  to  realise 
that  she  had  got  herself  into  trouble,  and  that  it  might  be  hard 
to  get  out  of  it.  But  she  felt  herself  strong,  and  she  wished 
she  had  with  her  those  proofs  which  would  make  her  case  good. 
She  was  so  sanguine  by  nature  that  she  was  willing  to  carry 
the  fight  to  the  end,  and  to  take  her  chance  for  the  result. 

“  You  may  send  for  Don  Giovanni  if  you  please,”  she  said. 
“  I  have  spoken  the  truth — if  he  denies  it  I  can  prove  it.  If  I 
were  you  I  would  spare  him  the  humiliation - ” 


254 


SARACIHESCA. 


A  servant  entered  the  room  in  answer  to  the  bell,  and 
Corona  interrupted  Donna  Tullia’s  speech  by  giving  the  man 
her  orders. 

“  Go  at  once  to  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca,  and  beg  Don  Gio¬ 
vanni  to  come  here  instantly  with  his  father  the  Prince.  Take 
the  carriage — it  is  waiting  below.” 

The  man  disappeared,  and  Corona  quietly  resumed  her  seat. 
Donna  Tullia  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  attempting  to  con¬ 
trol  her  anger  in  an  assumption  of  dignity  ;  but  soon  she  broke 
out  afresh,  being  rendered  very  nervous  and  uncomfortable  by 
the  Duchessa’s  calm  manner  and  apparent  indifference  to  con¬ 
sequences. 

“  I  cannot  see  why  you  should  expose  yourself  to  such  a 
scene,”  said  Madame  Mayer  presently.  “  I  honestly  wished  to 
save  you  from  a  terrible  danger.  It  seems  to  me  it  would  be 
quite  sufficient  if  I  proved  the  fact  to  you  beyond  dispute.  I 
should  think  that  instead  of  being  angry,  you  would  show  some 
gratitude.” 

“  I  am  not  angry,”  answered  Corona,  quietly.  “  I  am  merely 
giving  you  an  immediate  opportunity  of  proving  your  assertion 
and  your  sanity.” 

“  My  sanity  !  ”  exclaimed  Donna  Tullia,  angrily.  “  Do  you 
seriously  believe - ” 

“  Nothing  that  you  say,”  said  Corona,  completing  the  sen¬ 
tence. 

Unable  to  bear  the  situation,  Madame  Mayer  rose  suddenly 
from  her  seat,  and  began  to  pace  the  small  room  with  short, 
angry  steps. 

“  You  shall  see,”  she  said,  fiercely — “you  shall  see  that  it  is 
all  true.  You  shall  see  this  man’s  face  when  I  accuse  him — 
you  shall  see  him  humiliated,  overthrown,  exposed  in  his  villany 
— the  wretch  !  You  shall  see  how - ” 

Corona’s  strong  voice  interrupted  her  enemy’s  invective  in 
ringing  tones. 

“Be  silent  !”  she  cried.  “In  twenty  minutes  he  will  be 
here.  But  if  you  say  one  word  against  him  before  he  comes,  I 
will  lock  you  into  this  room  and  leave  you.  I  certainly  will  not 
hear  you.” 

Donna  Tullia  reflected  that  the  Duchessa  was  in  her  own 
house,  and  moreover  that  she  was  not  a  woman  to  be  trifled 
with.  She  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  taking  up  a  book 
that  lay  upon  the  table,  she  pretended  to  read. 

Corona  remained  seated  by  the  fireplace,  glancing  at  her 
from  time  to  time.  She  was  strangely  inclined  to  laugh  at  the 
whole  situation,  which  seemed  to  her  absurd  in  the  extreme — 
for  it  never  crossed  her  mind  1 6  believe  that  there  was  a  word 
of  truth  in  the  accusation  against  Giovanni.  Nevertheless  she 


SARACINESCA. 


255 


was  puzzled  to  account  for  Donna  Tullia's  assurance-,  and 
especially  for  her  readiness  to  face  the  man  she  so  calumniated. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed  in  this  armed  silence — the  two 
women  glancing  at  each  other  from  time  to  time,  until  the  dis¬ 
tant  sound  of  wheels  rolling  under  the  great  gate  announced 
that  the  messenger  had  returned  from  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca, 
probably  conveying  Don  Giovanni  and  his  father. 

“  Then  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  the  humiliation  of 
the  man  you  love  ?  ”  asked  Donna  Tullia,  looking  up  from  her 
book  with  a  sneer  on  her  face. 

Corona  vouchsafed  no  answer,  but  her  eyes  turned  towards 
the  door  in  expectation.  Presently  there  were  steps  heard 
without.  The  servant  entered,  and  announced  Prince  Sara¬ 
cinesca  and  Don  Giovanni.  Corona  rose.  The  old  man  came 
in  first,  followed  by  his  son. 

“An  unexpected  pleasure,”  he  said,  gaily.  “  Such  good 
luck  !  Wewere  both  at  home.  Ah,  Donna  Tullia,”  he  cried, 
seeing  Madame  Mayer,  “  how  are  you  ?  ”  Then  seeing  her 
face,  he  added,  suddenly,  “  Is  anything  the  matter  ?  ” 

Meanwhile  Giovanni  had  entered,  and  stood  by  Corona's 
side  near  the  fireplace.  He  saw  at  once  that  something  was 
wrong,  and  he  looked  anxiously  from  the  Duchessa  to  Donna 
Tullia.  Corona  spoke  at  once. 

“  Donna  Tullia,”  she  said,  quietly,  “  I  have  the  honour  to 
offer  you  an  opportunity  of  explaining  yourself.” 

Madame  Mayer  remained  seated  by  the  table,  her  face  red 
with  anger.  She  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  and  half  closing  her 
eyes  with  a  disagreeable  look  of  contempt,  she  addressed  Gio¬ 
vanni. 

“  I  am  sorry  to  cause  you  such  profound  humiliation,”  she 
began,  “but  in  the  interest  of  the  Duchessa  d'Astrardente  I 
feel  bound  to  speak.  Don  Giovanni,  do  you  remember  Aquila  ?  ” 

“  Certainly,”  he  replied,  coolly — “  I  have  often  been  there. 
What  of  it  ?” 

Old  Saracinesca  stared  from  one  to  the  other. 

“  What  is  this  comedy  ?  ”  he  asked  of  Corona.  But  she 
nodded  to  him  to  be  silent. 

“  Then  you  doubtless  remember  Felice  Baldi — poor  Felice 
Baldi,”  continued  Donna  Tullia,  still  gazing  scornfully  up  at 
Giovanni  from  where  she  sat. 

“  I  never  heard  the  name,  that  I  can  remember,”  answered 
Giovanni,  as  though  trying  to  recall  some  memory  of  the  past. 
He  could  not  imagine  what  she  was  leading  to,  but  he  was  will¬ 
ing  to  answer  her  questions. 

“You  do  not  remember  that  you  were  married  to  her  at 
Aquila  on  the  19th  of  June - ?  ” 

“  I — married  ?  ”  cried  Giovanni,  in  blank  astonishment. 


256 


SARACINESCA. 


“Signora  Duchessa,”  said  the  Prince,  bending  his  heavy 
brows,  “  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  ” 

“  I  will  tell  you  the  meaning  of  it,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  in 
low  hissing  tones,  and  rising  suddenly  to  her  feet  she  assumed 
a  somewhat  theatrical  attitude  as  she  pointed  to  Giovanni.  “  I 
will  tell  what  it  means.  It  means  that  Don  Giovanni  Sara- 
cinesca  was  married  in  the  church  of  San  Bernardino,  at 
Aquila,  on'the  19th  of  June  1863,  to  the  woman  Felice  Baldi— 
who  is  his  lawful  wife  to-day,  and  for  aught  we  know  the 
mother  of  his  children,  while  he  is  here  in  Rome  attempting 
to  marry  the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente — can  he  deny  it  ?  Can 
he  deny  that  his  own  signature  is  there,  there  in  the  office  of  the 
Stato  Civile  at  Aquila,  to  testify  against  him  ?  Can  he - ?  ” 

“  Silence  !  ”  roared  the  Prince.  “  Silence,  woman,  or  by  God 
in  heaven  I  will  stop  your  talking  for  ever  !  ”  He  made  a  step 
towards  her,  and  there  was  a  murderous  red  light  in  his  black 
eyes.  But  Giovanni  sprang  forward  and  seized  his  father  by 
the  wrist. 

“You  cannot  silence  me,”  screamed  Donna  Tullia.  “  I  will 
be  heard,  and  by  all  Rome.  I  will  cry  it  upon  the  housetops 
to  all  the  world - ” 

«  Then  you  will  precipitate  your  confinement  in  the  asylum 
of  Santo  Spirito,”  said  Giovanni,  in  cold,  calm  tones.  “You 
are  clearly  mad.” 

“  So  I  said,”  assented  Corona,  who  was  nevertheless  pale,  and 
trembling  with  excitement. 

“Allow  me  to  speak  with  her,”  said  Giovanni,  who,  like 
most  dangerous  men,  seemed  to  grow  cold  as  others  grew  hot. 
Donna  Tullia  leaned  upon  the  table,  breathing  hard  between 
her  closed  teeth,  her  face  scarlet. 

«  Madame,”  said  Giovanni,  advancing  a  step  and  confronting 
her,  “  you  say  that  I  am  married,  and  that  I  am  contemplat¬ 
ing  a  monstrous  crime.  Upon  what  do  you  base  your  extraor¬ 
dinary  assertions  ?  ”  . 

“Upon  attested  copies  of  your  marriage  certificate,  ot  the 
civil  register  where  your  handwriting  has  been  seen  and  recog¬ 
nised.  What  more  would  you  have  ?” 

“  It  is  monstrous  !  ”  cried  the  Prince,  advancing  again.  “  It 
is  the  most  abominable  lie  ever  concocted  !  My  son^  married 
without  my  knowledge,  and  to  a  peasant  !  Absurd  ! 

But  Giovanni  waved  his  father  hack,  and  kept  his  place 
before  Donna  Tullia.  # 

“  I  give  you  the  alternative  of  producing  instantly  those  proofs 
you  refer  to,”  he  said,  “and  which  you  certainly  cannot  pro¬ 
duce,  or  of  waiting  in  this  house  until  a  competent  physician 
has  decided  whether  you  are  sufficiently  sane  to  he  allowed  to 
go  home  alone.” 


SARACINESCA. 


257 


Donna  Tnllia  hesitated.  She  was  in  a  terrible  position,  for 
Del  Ferice  had  left  Rome  suddenly,  and  though  the  papers 
were  somewhere  in  his  house,  she  knew  not  where,  nor  how  to 
get  at  them.  It  was  impossible  to  imagine  a  situation  more 
desperate,  and  she  felt  it  as  she  looked  round  and  saw  the  pale 
dark  faces  of  the  three  resolute  persons  whose  anger  she  had 
thus  roused.  She  believed  that  Giovanni  was  capable  of  any¬ 
thing,  but  she  was  astonished  at  his  extraordinary  calmness. 
She  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

“  That  is  perfectly  just,”  said  Corona.  “If  you  have  proofs, 
you  can  produce  them.  If  you  have  none,  you  are  insane.” 

“  I  have  them,  and  I  will  produce  them  before  this  hour  to¬ 
morrow,”  answered  Donna  Tullia,  not  knowing  how  she  should 
get  the  papers,  but  knowing  that  she  was  lost  if  she  failed  to 
obtain  them. 

“Why  not  to-day — at  once?”  asked  Giovanni,  with  some  scorn. 

“  It  will  take  twenty-four  hours  to  forge  them,”  growled  his 
father. 

“  You  have  no  right  to  insult  me  so  grossly,”  cried  Donna 
Tullia.  “  But  beware — I  have  you  in  my  power.  By  this  time 
to-morrow  you  shall  see  with  your  own  eyes  that  I  speak  the 
truth.  Let  me  go,”  she  cried,  as  the  old  Prince  placed  himself 
between  her  and  the  door. 

“  I  will,”  said  he.  “  But  before  you  go,  I  beg  you  to  observe 
that  if  between  now  and  the  time  you  show  us  these  documents 
you  breathe  abroad  one  word  of  your  accusations,  I  will  have 
you  arrested  as  a  dangerous  lunatic,  and  lodged  in  Santo  Spirito; 
and  if  these  papers  are  not  authentic,  you  will  be  arrested  to¬ 
morrow  afternoon  on  a  charge  of  forgery.  You  quite  under¬ 
stand  me  ?  ”  He  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass.  She  laughed 
scornfully  in  his  face,  and  went  out. 

When  she  was  gone  the  three  looked  at  each  other,  as  though 
trying  to  comprehend  what  had  happened.  Indeed,  it  was  be¬ 
yond  their  comprehension.  Corona  leaned  against  the  chim- 
neypiece,  and  her  eyes  rested  lovingly  upon  Giovanni.  Ho 
doubt  had  ever  crossed  her  mind  of  his  perfect  honesty.  Old 
Saracinesca  looked  from  one  to  the  other  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  striking  the  palms  of  his  hands  together,  turned  and  be¬ 
gan  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

“  In  the  first  place,”  said  Giovanni,  “  at  the  time  she  men¬ 
tions  I  was  in  Canada,  upon  a  shooting  expedition,  with  a  party 
of  Englishmen.  It  is  easy  to  prove  that,  as  they  are  all  alive 
and  well  now,  so  far  as  I  have  heard.  Donna  Tullia  is  clearly 
out  of  her  mind.” 

“  The  news  of  your  engagement  has  driven  her  mad,”  said 
the  old  Prince,  with  a  grim  laugh.  “  It  is  a  very  interesting 
and  romantic  case.” 


258 


SARACINESCA. 


Corona  blushed  a  little,  and  her  eyes  sought  Giovanni’s,  but 
her  face  was  very  grave.  It  was  a  terrible  thing  to  see  a  person 
she  had  known  so  long  becoming  insane,  and  for  the  sake  of 
the  man  she  herself  so  loved.  And  yet  she  had  not  a  doubt  of 
Donna  Tullia’s  madness.  It  was  very  sad. 

“  I  wonder  who  could  have  put  this  idea  into  her  head,”  said 
Giovanni,  thoughtfully.  “It  does  not  look  like  a  creation  of 
her  own  brain.  I  wonder,  too,  what  absurdities  she  will  pro¬ 
duce  in  the  way  of  documents.  Of  course  they  must  be 
forged.” 

“  She  will  not  bring  them,”  returned  his  father,  in  a  tone  of 
certainty.  “We  shall  hear  to-morrow  that  she  is  raving  in  the 
delirium  of  a  brain-fever.” 

“  Poor  thing  !  ”  exclaimed  Corona.  “  It  is  dreadful  to  think 
of  it.” 

“  It  is  dreadful  to  think  that  she  should  have  caused  you  all 
this  trouble  and  annoyance,”  said  Giovanni,  warmly.  “You 
must  have  had  a  terrible  scene  with  her  before  we  came.  What 
did  she  say  ?  ” 

“  Just  what  she  said  to  you.  Then  she  began  to  rail  against 
you;  and  I  sent  for  you,  and  told  her  that  unless  she  could  be 
silent  I  would  lock  her  up  alone  until  you  arrived.  So  she  sat 
down  in  that  chair,  and  pretended  to  read.  But  it  was  an  im¬ 
mense  relief  when  you  came  !  ” 

“You  did  not  once  believe  what  she  said  might  possibly  be 
true?  ”  asked  Giovanni,  with  a  loving  look. 

“  I  ?  How  could  you  ever  think  it  !  ”  exclaimed  Corona. 
Then  she  laughed,  and  added,  “But  of  course  you  knew  that  I 
would  not.” 

“  Indeed,  yes,”  he  answered.  “  It  never  entered  my  head.” 

“  By-the-bye,”  said  old  Saracinesca,  glancing  at  the  Du- 
chessa’s  black  bonnet  and  gloved  hands,  “'you  must  have  been 
just  ready  to  go  out  when  she  came — we  must  not  keep  you.  I 
suppose  that  when  she  said  she  would  bring  her  proofs  to¬ 
morrow  at  this  hour,  she  meant  she  would  bring  them  here. 
Shall  we  come  to-morrow  then  ?  ” 

“Yes — by  all  means,”  she  answered.  “  Come  to  breakfast  at 
one  o’clock.  I  am  alone,  you  know,  for  Sister  Gabrielle  has  in¬ 
sisted  upon  going  back  to  her  community.  But  what  does  it 
matter  now  ?  ” 

“  What  does  it  matter  ?”  echoed  the  Prince.  “  You  are  to  be 
married  so  soon.  I  really  think  Ave  can  do  as  we  please.”  He 
generally  did  as  he  pleased. 

The  two  men  left  her,  and  a  few  minutes  later  she  descended 
the  steps  of  the  palace  and  entered  her  carriage,  as  though 
nothing  had  happened. 

Six  months  had  passed  since  she  had  given  her  troth  to  Gio- 


SARACINESCA. 


259 


vanni  upon  the  tower  of  Saracinesca,  and  she  knew  that  she 
loved  him  better  now  than  then.  Little  had  happened  of  in¬ 
terest  in  the  interval  of  time,  and  the  days  had  seemed  long. 
But  until  after  Christmas  she  had  remained  at  Astrardente, 
busying  herself  constantly  with  the  improvements  she  had 
already  begun,  and  aided  by  the  counsels  of  Giovanni.  He  had 
taken  a  cottage  of  hers  in  the  lower  part  of  her  village,  and  had 
fitted  it  up  with  the  few  comforts  he  judged  necessary.  In 
this  lodging  he  had  generally  spent  half  the  week,  going  daily 
to  the  palace  upon  the  hill  and  remaining  for  long  hours  in 
Corona's  society,  studying  her  plans  and  visiting  with  her  the 
works  which  grew  beneath  their  joint  direction.  She  had 
grown  to  know  him  as  she  had  not  known  him  before,  and  to 
understand  mere  fully  his  manly  character.  He  was  a  very 
resolute  man,  and  very  much  in  earnest  when  he  chanced  to  be 
doing  anything;  but  the  strain  of  melancholy  which  he  inher¬ 
ited  from  his  mother  made  him  often  inclined  to  a  sort  of  con¬ 
templative  idleness,  during  which  his  mind  seemed  preoccupied 
with  absorbing  thoughts.  Many  people  called  his  fits  of  silence 
an  affectation,  or  part  of  his  system  for  rendering  himself  inte¬ 
resting;  but  Corona  soon  saw  how  real  was  his  abstraction,  and 
she  saw  also  that  she  alone  was  able  to  attract  his  attention  and 
interest  him  when  the  fit  was  upon  him.  Slowly,  by  a  gradual 
study  of  him,  she  learned  what  few  had  ever  guessed,  namely, 
that  beneath  the  experienced  man  of  the  world,  under  his 
modest  manner  and  his  gentle  wrays,  there  lay  a  powerful  main¬ 
spring  of  ambition,  a  mine  of  strength,  which  would  one  day 
exert  itself  and  make  itself  felt  upon  his  surroundings.  He  had 
developed  slowly,  feeding  upon  many  experiences  of  the  world  in 
many  countries,  his  quick  Italian  intelligence  comprehending 
often  more  than  it  seemed  to  do,  while  the  quiet  dignity  he  got 
from  his  Spanish  blood  made  him  appear  often  very  cold.  But 
now  and  again,  when  under  the  influence  of  some  large  idea, 
his  tongue  was  loosed  in  the  charm  of  Corona's  presence,  and 
he  spoke  to  her,  as  he  had  never  spoken  to  any  one,  of  projects 
and  plans  which  should  make  the  world  move.  She  did  not 
always  understand  him  wholly,  but  she  knew  that  the  man  she 
loved  was  something  more  than  the  world  at  large  believed 
him  to  be,  and  there  was  a  thrill  of  pride  in  the  thought  which 
delighted  her  inmost  soul.  She,  too,  was  ambitious,  but  her 
ambition  was  all  for  him.  She  felt  that  there  was  little  room 
for  common  aspirations  in  his  position  or  in  her  own.  All  that 
high  birth,  and  wealth,  and  personal  consideration  could  give, 
they  both  had  abundantly,  beyond  their  utmost  wishes;  any¬ 
thing  they  could  desire  beyond  that  must  lie  in  a  larger  sphere 
of  action  than  mere  society,  in  the  world  of  political  power. 
She  herself  had  had  dreams,  and  entertained  them  still,  of 


260 


SARACINESCA. 


founding  some  great  institution  of  charity,  of  doing  something 
for  her  poorer  fellows.  But  she  learned  by  degrees  that  Gio¬ 
vanni  looked  further  than  to  such  ordinary  means  of  employing 
power,  and  that  there  was  in  him  a  great  ambition  to  bring 
great  forces  to  bear  upon  great  questions  for  the  accomplish¬ 
ment  of  great  results.  The  six  months  of  her  engagement  to 
him  had  not  only  strengthened  her  love  for  him,  already  deep 
and  strong,  but  had  implanted  in  her  an  unchanging  determina¬ 
tion  to  second  him  in  all  his  life,  to  omit  nothing  in  her  power 
which  could  assist  him  in  the  career  he  should  choose  for  him¬ 
self,  and  which  she  regarded  as  the  ultimate  field  for  his  ex¬ 
traordinary  powers.  It  was  strange  that,  while  granting  him 
everything  else,  people  had  never  thought  of  calling  him  a  man 
of  remarkable  intelligence.  But  no  one  knew  him  as  Corona 
knew  him;  no  one  suspected  that  there  was  in  him  anything 
more  than  the  traditional  temper  of  the  Saracinesca,  with  suffi¬ 
cient  mind  to  make  him  as  fair  a  representative  of  his  race  as 
his  father  was. 

There  was  more  than  mere  love  and  devotion  in  the  complete 
security  she  felt  when  she  saw  him  attacked  by  Donna  Tullia; 
there  was  already  the  certainty  that  he  was  born  to  be  above 
small  things,  and  to  create  a  sphere  of  his  own  in  which  he 
would  move  as  other  men  could  not. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

When  Donna  Tullia  quitted  the  Palazzo  Astrardente  her  head 
swam.  She  had  utterly  failed  to  do  what  she  had  expected; 
and  from  being  the  accuser,  she  felt  that  she  was  suddenly 
thrust  into  the  position  of  the  accused.  Instead  of  inspiring 
terror  in  Corona,  and  causing  Giovanni  the  terrible  humiliation 
she  had  supposed  he  would  feel  at  the  exposure  of  his  previous 
marriage,  she  had  been  coldly  told  that  she  was  mad,  and  that 
her  pretended  proofs  were  forgeries.  Though  she  herself  felt 
no  doubt  whatever  concerning  the  authenticity  of  the  docu¬ 
ments,  it  was  very  disappointing  to  find  that  the  first  mention 
of  them  produced  no  startling  effect  upon  any  one,  least  of  all 
upon  Giovanni  himself.  The  man,  she  thought,  was  a  most 
accomplished  villain;  since  he  was  capable  of  showing  such 
hardened  indifference  to  her  accusation,  he  was  capable  also  of 
thwarting  her  in  her  demonstration  of  their  truth — and  she 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  what  she  saw.  Old  Saracinesca  was 
not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with,  nor  his  son  either:  they  were 
powerful,  and  would  be  revenged  for  the  insult.  But  in  the 
meanwhile  she  had  promised  to  produce  her  proofs;  and  when 
she  regained  enough  composure  to  consider  the  matter  from  all 
its  points,  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  after  all  her  game 


SARACINESCA. 


261 


was  not  lost,  seeing  that  attested  documents  are  evidence  not 
easily  refuted,  even  by  powerful  men  like  Leone  and  Giovanni 
Saracinesca.  She  gradually  convinced  herself  that  their  indif¬ 
ference  was  a  pretence,  and  that  they  were  accomplices  in  the 
matter,  their  object  being  to  gain  Corona  with  all  her  fortune 
for  Giovanni’s  wife.  But,  at  the  same  time,  Donna  Tullia  felt 
in  the  depths  of  her  heart  a  misgiving :  she  was  clever  enough 
to  recognise,  even  in  spite  of  herself,  the  difference  between  a 
]iar  and  an  honest  man. 

She  must  get  possession  of  these  papers — and  immediately 
too;  there  must  be  no  delay  in  showing  them  to  Corona,  and  in 
convincing  her  that  this  was  no  mere  fable,  but  an  assertion 
founded  upon  very  substantial  evidence.  Del  Ferice  was  sud¬ 
denly  gone  to  Naples:  obviously  the  only  way  to  get  at  the 
papers  was  to  bribe  his  servant  to  deliver  them  up.  Ugo  had 
once  or  twice  mentioned  Temistocle  to  her,  and  she  judged  from 
the  few  words  he  had  let  fall  that  the  fellow  was  a  scoundrel, 
who  would  sell  his  soul  for  money.  Madame  Mayer  drove  home, 
and  put  on  the  only  dark-coloured  gown  she  possessed,  wound 
a  thick  veil  about  her  head,  provided  herself  with  a  number  of 
bank-notes,  which  she  thrust  between  the  palm  of  her  hand  and 
her  glove,  left  the  house  on  foot,  and  took  a  cab.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  go  herself,  for  she  could  trust  no  one. 
Her  heart  beat  fast  as  she  ascended  the  narrow  stone  steps  of 
Del  Ferice’s  lodging,  and  stopped  upon  the  landing  before  the 
small  green  door,  whereon  she  read  his  name.  She  pulled  the 
bell,  and  Temistocle  appeared  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

“  Does  Count  Del  Ferice  live  here  ?  ”  asked  Donna  Tullia, 
peering  over  the  man’s  shoulder  into  the  dark  and  narrow  pas¬ 
sage  within. 

“  He  lives  here,  but  he  is  gone  to  Naples,”  answered  Temis¬ 
tocle,  promptly. 

“When  will  he  be  back?”  she  inquired.  The  man  raised 
his  shoulders  to  his  ears,  and  spread  out  the  palms  of  his  hauds 
to  signify  that  he  did  not  know.  Donna  Tullia  hesitated.  She 
had  never  attempted  to  bribe  anybody  in  her  life,  and  hardly 
knew  how  to  go  about  it.  She  thought  that  the  sight  of  the 
money  might  produce  an  impression,  and  she  withdrew  a  bank¬ 
note  from  the  hollow  of  her  hand,  spreading  it  out  between  her 
fingers.  Temistocle  eyed  it  greedily. 

“  There  are  twenty-five  scudi,”  she  said.  “  If  you  will  help 
me  to  find  a  piece  of  paper  in  your  master’s  room,  you  shall 
have  them.” 

Temistocle  drew  himself  up  with  an  air  of  mock  pride.  Ma¬ 
dame  Mayer  looked  at  him. 

“Impossible,  signora,”  he  said.  Then  she  drew  out  another. 
Temistocle  eyed  the  glove  curiously  to  see  if  it  contained  more. 


262 


SARACINESCA. 


“  Signora,”  he  repeated,  “  it  is  impossible.  My  master  would 
kill  me.  I  cannot  think  of  it.”  But  his  tone  seemed  to  yield 
a  little.  Donna  Tullia  found  another  bank-note;  there  were 
now  seventy-five  scudi  in  her  hand.  She  thought  she  saw 
Temisto.de  tremble  with  excitement.  But  still  he  hesitated. 

“  Signora,  my  conscience,”  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  of  protestation. 

“Come,”  said  Madame  Mayer,  impatiently,  “there  is  another 
— there  are  a  hundred  scudi — that  is  all  I  have  got,”  she  added, 
turning  down  her  empty  glove. 

Suddenly  Temistocle  put  out  his  hand  and  grasped  the  bank¬ 
notes  eagerly.  But  instead  of  retiring  to  allow  her  to  enter, 
he  pushed  roughly  past  her. 

“  You  may  go  in,”  he  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  and  turning 
quickly,  fled  precipitately  down  the  narrow  steps,  in  his  shirt¬ 
sleeves  as  he  was.  Madame  Mayer  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
after  him  in  surprise,  even  when  he  had  already  disappeared. 

Then  she  turned  and  entered  the  door  rather  timidly;  but 
before  she  had  gone  two  steps  in  the  dark  passage,  she  uttered 
a  cry  of  horror.  Del  Ferice  stood  in  her  way,  wrapped  in  a 
loose  dressing-gown,  a  curious  expression  upon  his  pale  face, 
which  from  its  whiteness  was  clearly  distinguishable  in  the 
gloom.  Temistocle  had  cheated  her,  had  lied  in  telling  her 
that  his  master  was  absent,  had  taken  her  bribe  and  had  fled. 
He  would  easily  find  an  excuse  for  having  allowed  her  to  enter; 
and  with  his  quick  valet’s  instinct,  he  guessed  that  she  would 
not  confess  to  Del  Ferice  that  she  had  bribed  him.  Ugo  came 
forward  a  step  and  instantly  recognised  Madame  Mayer. 

“Donna  Tullia!”  he  cried,  “what  are  you  doing?  You 
must  not  be  seen  here.” 

A  less  clever  man  than  IJgo  would  have  pretended  to  be  over¬ 
joyed  at  her  coming.  Del  Ferice’s  fine  instincts  told  him  that 
for  whatever  cause  she  had  come — and  he  guessed  the  cause 
well  enough — he  would  get  a  firmer  hold  upon  her  consideration 
by  appearing  to  be  shocked  at  her  imprudence.  Donna  Tullia 
was  nearly  fainting  with  fright,  and  stood  leaning  against  the 
wall  of  the  passage. 

“  I  thought — I — I  must  see  you  at  once,”  she  stammered. 

“  Hot  here,”  he  answered,  quickly.  “  Go  home  at  once ;  I  will 
join  you  in  five  minutes.  It  will  ruin  you  to  have  it  known 
that  you  have  been  here.” 

Madame  Mayer  took  courage  at  his  tone. 

“  You  must  bring  them — those  papers,”  she  said,  hurriedly. 
“  Something  dreadful  has  happened.  Promise  me  to  come  at 
once !  ” 

“  I  will  come  at  once,  my  dear  lady,”  he  said,  gently  pushing 
her  towards  the  door.  “  I  cannot  even  go  downstairs  with  you 
— forgive  me.  You  have  your  carriage  of  course  ?  ” 


SARACINESCA. 


263 


“  I  have  a  cab,”  replied  Donna  Tullia,  faintly,  submitting  to 
be  put  out  of  the  door.  He  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it  pas¬ 
sionately,  or  with  a  magnificent  semblance  of  passion.  With  a 
startled  look,  Donna  Tullia  turned  and  went  rapidly  down  the 
steps.  Del  Ferice  smiled  softly  to  himself  when  she  was  gone, 
and  went  in  again  to  exchange  his  dressing-gown  for  a  coat. 
He  had  her  in  his  power  at  last.  He  had  guessed  that  she 
would  betray  the  secret — that  after  the  engagement  became 
known,  she  would  not  be  able  to  refrain  from  communicating 
it  to  Corona  d'Astrardente ;  and  so  soon  as  he  heard  the  news, 
he  had  shut  himself  up  in  his  lodging,  pretending  a  sudden 
journey  to  Naples,  determined  not  to  set  foot  out  of  the  house 
until  he  heard  that  Donna  Tullia  had  committed  herself.  He 
knew  that  when  she  had  once  spoken  she  would  make  a  des¬ 
perate  attempt  to  obtain  the  papers,  for  he  knew  that  such  an 
assertion  as  hers  would  need  to  be  immediately  proved,  at  the 
risk  of  her  position  in  society.  His  plot  had  succeeded  so  far. 
His  only  anxiety  was  to  know  whether  she  had  mentioned  his 
name  in  connection  with  the  subject,  but  he  guessed,  from  his 
knowledge  of  her  character,  that  she  would  not  do  so :  she 
would  respect  her  oath  enough  to  conceal  his  name,  even  while 
breaking  her  promise;  she  would  enjoy  taking  the  sole  credit 
of  the  discovery  upon  herself,  and  she  would  shun  an  avowal 
which  would  prove  her  to  have  discussed  with  any  one  else  the 
means  of  preventing  the  marriage,  because  it  would  be  a  con¬ 
fession  of  jealousy,  and  consequently  of  personal  interest  in 
Don  Giovanni.  Del  Ferice  was  a  very  clever  fellow. 

He  put  on  his  coat,  and  in  five  minutes  was  seated  in  a  cab 
on  his  way  to  Donna  Tullia’s  house,  with  a  large  envelope  full 
of  papers  in  his  pocket.  He  found  her  as  she  had  left  him, 
her  face  still  wrapped  in  a  veil,  walking  up  and  down  her 
drawing-room  in  great  excitement.  He  advanced  and  saluted 
her  courteously,  maintaining  a  dignified  gravity  of  bearing 
which  he  judged  fitting  for  the  occasion. 

“  And  now,  my  dear  lady,”  he  said,  gently,  “  will  you  tell  me 
exactly  what  you  have  done  ?  ” 

“This  morning,”  answered  Madame  Mayer,  in  a  stifled  voice, 
“  I  heard  of  the  Astrardente’s  engagement  to  Don  Giovanni. 
It  seemed  such  a  terrible  thing  !  ” 

“  Terrible,  indeed,”  said  Del  Ferice,  solemnly. 

“  I  sent  for  you  at  once,  to  know  what  to  do :  they  said  you 
were  gone  to  Naples.  I  thought,  of  course,  that  you  would 
approve  if  you  were  here,  because  we  ought  to  prevent  such  a 
dreadful  crime — of  course.”  She  waited  for  some  sign  of 
assent,  but  Del  Ferice’s  pale  face  expressed  nothing  but  a  sort 
of  grave  reproach. 

“And  then,”  she  continued,  “as  I  could  not  find  you,  I 


264 


SARACI^ESCA. 


thought  it  was  best  to  act  at  once,  and  so  I  went  to  see  the  As- 
trardente,  feeling  that  you  would  entirely  support  me.  There 
was  a  terrific  scene.  She  sent  for  the  two  Saracinesca,  and  I — 
waited  till  they  came,  because  I  was  determined  to  see  justice 
done.  I  am  sure  I  was  right, — was  I  not  ?” 

“  What  did  they  say  ?  ”  asked  Del  Ferice,  quietly  watching 
her  face. 

“  If  you  will  believe  it,  that  monster  of  villany,  Don  Gio¬ 
vanni,  was  as  cold  as  stone,  and  denied  the  whole  matter  from 
beginning  to  end ;  but  his  father  was  very  angry.  Of  course 
they  demanded  the  proofs.  I  never  saw  anything  like  the 
brazen  assurance  of  Don  Giovanni.” 

“  Did  you  mention  me  ?  ”  inquired  Del  Ferice. 

“  No,  I  had  not  seen  you :  of  course  I  did  not  want  to  impli¬ 
cate  you.  I  said  I  would  show  them  the  papers  to-morrow  at 
the  same  hour.” 

“  And  then  you  came  to  see  me,”  said  Del  Ferice.  “  That 
was  very  rash.  You  might  have  seriously  compromised  your¬ 
self.  I  would  have  come  if  you  had  sent  for  me.” 

“  But  they  said  you  had  gone  to  Naples.  Your  servant,” 
continued  Donna  Tullia,  blushing  scarlet  at  the  remembrance 
of  her  interview  with  Temistocle, — “  your  servant  assured  me 
in  person  that  you  had  gone  to  Naples - ” 

“  I  see,”  replied  Del  Ferice,  quietly.  He  did  not  wish  to 
press  her  to  a  confession  of  having  tried  to  get  the  papers  in 
his  absence.  His  object  was  to  put  her  at  her  ease. 

“  My  dear  lady,”  he  continued,  gently,  “  you  have  done  an 
exceedingly  rash  thing ;  but  I  will  support  you  in  every  way, 
by  putting  the  documents  in  your  possession  at  once.  It  is 
unfortunate  that  you  should  have  acted  so  suddenly,  for  we  do 
not  know  what  has  become  of  this  Felice  Baldi,  nor  have  we 
any  immediate  means  of  finding  out.  It  might  have  taken 
weeks  to  find  her.  Why  were  you  so  rash  ?  You  could  have 
waited  till  I  returned,  and  we  could  have  discussed  the  matter 
carefully,  and  decided  whether  it  were  really  wise  to  make  use 
of  my  information.” 

“  You  do  not  doubt  that  I  did  right  ?”  asked  Donna  Tullia, 
turning  a  little  pale. 

“  I  think  you  acted  precipitately  in  speaking  without  con¬ 
sulting  me.  All  may  yet  be  well.  But  in  the  first  place,  as 
you  did  not  ask  my  opinion,  you  will  see  the  propriety  of  not 
mentioning  my  name,  since  you  have  not  done  so  already.  It 
can  do  no  good,  for  the  papers  speak  for  themselves,  and  what¬ 
ever  value  they  may  have  is  inherent  in  them.  Do  you  see  ?” 

“  Of  course,  there  is  no  need  of  mentioning  you,  unless  you 
wish  to  have  a  share  in  the  exposure  of  this  abominable 
wickedness.” 


SARACINESCA. 


265 


“  I  am  satisfied  with  my  share,”  replied  Del  Ferice,  with  a 
quiet  smile. 

“  It  is  not  an  important  one,”  returned  Donna  Tullia,  ner¬ 
vously. 

“  It  is  the  lion's  share,”  he  answered.  “  Most  adorable  of 
women,  you  have  not,  I  am  sure,  forgotten  the  terms  of  our 
agreement — terms  so  dear  to  me,  that  every  word  of  them  is 
engraven  for  ever  upon  the  tablet  of  my  heart.” 

Madame  Mayer  started  slightly.  She  had  not  realised  that 
her  promise  to  marry  Ugo  was  now  due — she  did  not  believe 
that  he  would  press  it;  he  had  exacted  it  to  frighten  her,  and 
besides,  she  had  so  persuaded  herself  that  he  would  approve  of 
her  conduct,  that  she  had  not  felt  as  though  she  were  betraying 
his  secret. 

“  You  will  not — you  cannot  hold  me  to  that;  you  approve  of 
telling  the  Astrardente,  on  the  whole, — it  is  the  same  as  though 
I  had  consulted  you - ” 

“Pardon  me,  my  dear  lady;  you  did  not  consult  me,”  an¬ 
swered  Del  Ferice,  soothingly.  He  sat  near  her  by  the  fire,  his 
hat  upon  his  knee,  no  longer  watching  her,  but  gazing  contem¬ 
platively  at  the  burning  logs.  There  was  a  delicacy  about  his 
pale  face  since  the  wound  he  had  received  a  year  before  which  was 
rather  attractive :  from  having  been  a  little  inclined  to  stout¬ 
ness,  he  had  grown  slender  and  more  graceful,  partly  because 
his  health  had  really  been  affected  by  his  illness,  and  partly 
because  he  had  determined  never  again  to  risk  being  too  fat. 

“  I  tried  to  consult  you,”  objected  Donna  Tullia.  “  It  is  the 
same  thing.” 

“It  is  not  the  same  thing  to  me,”  he  answered,  “although 
you  have  not  involved  me  in  the  affair.  I  would  have  most 
distinctly  advised  you  to  say  nothing  about  it  at  present.  You 
have  acted  rashly,  have  put  yourself  in  a  most  painful  situa¬ 
tion;  and  you  have  broken  your  promise  to  me — a  very  solemn 
promise,  Donna  Tullia,  sworn  upon  the  memory  of  your 
mother  and  upon  a  holy  relic.  One  cannot  make  light  of  such 
promises  as  that.” 

“  You  made  me  give  it  in  order  to  frighten  me.  The 
Church  does  not  bind  us  to  oaths  sworn  under  compulsion,” 
she  argued. 

“Excuse  me;  there  was  no  compulsion  whatever.  You 
wanted  to  know  my  secret,  and  for  the  sake  of  knowing  it  you 
bound  yourself.  That  is  not  compulsion.  I  cannot  compel 
you.  I  could  not  think  of  presuming  to  compel  you  to  marry 
me  now.  But  I  can  say  to  you  that  I  am  devotedly  attached 
to  you,  that  to  marry  you  is  the  aim  and  object  of  my  life,  and 
if  you  refuse,  I  will  tell  you  that  you  are  doing  a  great  wrong, 
repudiating  a  solemn  contract - ” 


266 


SARACINESCA. 


“  If  I  refuse — well — but  you  would  give  me  the  papers  ?  ” 
asked  Donna  Tullia,  who  was  beginning  to  tremble  for  the  re¬ 
sult  of  the  interview.  She  had  a  vague  suspicion  that,  for  the 
sake  of  obtaining  them,  she  would  even  be  willing  to  promise 
to  marry  Del  Ferice.  It  would  be  very  wrong,  perhaps;  but  it 
would  be  for  the  sake  of  accomplishing  good,  by  preventing 
Corona  from  falling  into  the  trap — Corona,  whom  she  hated ! 
Still,  it  would  be  a  generous  act  to  save  her.  The  minds  of 
women  like  Madame  Mayer  are  apt  to  be  a  little  tortuous  when 
they  find  themselves  hemmed  in  between  their  own  jealousies, 
hatreds,  and  personal  interests. 

“  If  you  refused — no;  if  you  refused,  I  am  afraid  I  could  not 
give  you  the  papers,”  replied  Del  Ferice,  musing  as  he  gazed 
at  the  fire.  “  I  love  you  too  much  to  lose  that  chance  of  win¬ 
ning  you,  even  for  the  sake  of  saving  the  Duchessa  d’Astrar- 
dente  from  her  fate.  Why  do  you  refuse  ?  why  do  you  bar¬ 
gain  ?  ”  he  asked,  suddenly  turning  towards  her.  “  Does  all 
my  devotion  count  for  nothing — all  my  love,  all  my  years  of 
patient  waiting  ?  Oh,  you  cannot  be  so  cruel  as  to  snatch  the 
cup  from  my  very  lips !  It  is  not  for  the  sake  of  these  misera¬ 
ble  documents:  what  is  it  to  me  whether  Don  Giovanni  appears 
as  the  criminal  in  a  case  of  bigamy — whether  he  is  ruined  now, 
as  by  his  evil  deeds  he  will  be  hereafter,  or  whether  he  goes  on 
unharmed  and  unthwarted  upon  his  career  of  wickedness  ?  He 
is  nothing  to  me,  nor  his  pale-faced  bride  either.  It  is  for 
you  that  I  care,  for  you  that  I  will  do  anything,  bad  or  good, 
to  win  you  that  I  would  risk  my  life  and  my  soul.  Can  you 
not  see  it  ?  Have  I  not  been  faithful  for  very  long  ?  Take 
pity  on  me — forget  this  whole  business,  forget  that  you  have 
promised  anything,  forget  all  except  that  I  am  here  at  your 
feet,  a  miserable  man,  unless  you  speak  the  word,  and  turn  all 
my  wretchedness  into  joy!” 

He  slipped  from  his  seat  and  knelt  upon  one  knee  before  her, 
clasping  one  of  her  hands  passionately  between  both  his  own. 
The  scene  was  well  planned  and  wTell  executed ;  his  voice  had 
a  ring  of  emotion  that  sounded  pleasantly  in  Donna  Tullia’s 
ears,  and  his  hands  trembled  with  excitement.  She  did  not 
repulse  him,  being  a  vain  woman  and  willing  to  believe  in  the 
reality  of  the  passion  so  well  simulated.  Perhaps,  too,  it  was 
not  wholly  put  on,  for  she  was  a  handsome,  dashing  woman,  in 
the  prime  of  youth,  and  Del  Ferice  was  a  man  who  had  always 
been  susceptible  to  charms  of  that  kind.  Donna  Tullia  hesi¬ 
tated,  wondering  what  more  he  could  say.  But  he,  on  his  part, 
knew  the  danger  of  trusting  too  much  to  eloquence  when  not 
backed  by  a  greater  strength  than  his,  and  he  pressed  her  for 
an  answer. 

“  Be  generous — trust  me,”  he  cried.  “  Believe  that  your  hap- 


SARAOIHESCA. 


26? 


piness  is  everything  to  me;  believe  that  I  will  take  no  unfair 
advantage  of  a  hasty  promise.  Tell  me  that,  of  your  own  free 
will,  you  will  be  my  wife,  and  command  me  anything,  that  I 
may  prove  my  devotion.  It  is  so  true,  so  honest, — Tullia,  I 
adore  you,  I  live  only  for  you!  Speak  the  word,  and  make  me 
the  happiest  of  men ! ” 

He  really  looked  handsome  as  he  knelt  before  her,  and  she 
felt  the  light,  nervous  pressure  of  his  hand  at  every  word  he 
spoke.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  ?  She  might  accept  him, 
and  then — well,  if  she  did  not  like  the  idea,  she  could  throw 
him  over.  It  would  only  cost  her  a  violent  scene,  and  a  few 
moments  of  discomfort.  Meanwhile  she  would  get  the  papers. 

“  But  you  would  give  me  the  papers,  would  you  not,  and 

leave  me  to  decide  whether -  Really,  Del  Ferice,”  she  said, 

interrupting  herself  with  a  nervous  laugh,  “  this  is  very  absurd.” 

“  I  implore  you  not  to  speak  of  the  papers — it  is  not  absurd. 
It  may  seem  so  to  you,  but  it  is  life  or  death  to  me :  death  if 
you  refuse  me — life  if  you  will  speak  the  word  and  be  mine!  ” 

Donna  Tullia  made  up  her  mind.  He  would  evidently  not 
give  her  what  she  wanted,  except  in  return  for  a  promise  of 
marriage.  She  had  grown  used  to  him,  almost  fond  of  him,  in 
the  last  year. 

“Well,  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  right,”  she  said,  “  but  I 
am  really  very  fond  of  you;  and  if  you  will  do  all  I  say - ” 

“  Everything,  my  dear  lady;  everything  in  the  world  I  will 
do,  if  you  will  make  me  so  supremely  happy,”  cried  Del  Ferice, 
ardently. 

“Then — yes;  I  will  marry  you.  Only  get  up  and  sit  upon 
your  chair  like  a  reasonable  being.  No;  you  really  must  be  rea¬ 
sonable,  or  you  must  go  away.”  Ugo  was  madly  kissing  her 
hands.  He  was  really  a  good  actor,  if  it  was  all  acting.  She 
could  not  but  be  moved  by  his  pale  delicate  face  and  passionate 
words.  With  a  quick  movement  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood 
before  her,  clasping  his  hands  together  and  gazing  into  her  face. 

“Oh,  I  am  the  happiest  man  alive  to-day!”  he  exclaimed, 
and  the  sense  of  triumph  that  he  felt  lent  energy  to  his  voice. 

“Do  sit  down,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  gaily,  “  and  let  us  talk  it 
all  over.  In  the  first  place,  what  am  I  to  do  first  ?  ” 

Del  Ferice  found  it  convenient  to  let  his  excitement  subside, 
and  as  a  preliminary  he  walked  twice  the  length  of  the  room. 

“  It  is  so  hard  to  be  calm !  ”  he  exclaimed ;  but  nevertheless 
he  presently  sat  down  in  his  former  seat,  and  seemed  to  collect 
his  faculties  with  wonderful  ease. 

“  What  is  to  be  done  first  ?  ”  asked  Donna  Tullia  again. 

“In  the  first  place,”  answered  Del  Ferice,  “here  are  those 
precious  papers.  As  they  are  notary’s  copies  themselves,  and 
not  the  originals,  it  is  of  no  importance  whether  Don  Giovanni 


268 


SARACINESCA. 


tears  them  up  or  not.  It  is  easy  to  get  others  if  he  does.  I 
have  noted  down  all  the  names  and  dates.  I  wish  we  had  some 
information  about  Felice  Baldi.  It  is  very  unfortunate  that  we 
have  not,  but  it  would  perhaps  take  a  month  to  find  her.” 

“I  must  act  at  once,”  said  Donna  Tullia,  firmly;  for  she  re¬ 
membered  old  Saracinesca’s  threats,  and  was  in  a  hurry. 

“  Of  course.  These  documents  speak  for  themselves.  They 
bear  the  address  of  the  notary  who  made  the  copies  in  Aquila. 
If  the  Saracinesca  choose,  they  can  themselves  go  there  and  see 
the  originals.” 

“  Could  they  not  destroy  those  too?”  asked  Donna  Tullia, 
nervously. 

“No;  they  can  only  see  one  at  a  time,  and  the  person  who 
will  show  them  will  watch  them.  Besides,  it  is  easy  to  write 
to  the  curate  of  the  church  of  San  Bernardino  to  be  on  his 
guard.  We  will  do  that  in  any  case.  The  matter  is  perfectly 
plain.  Your  best  course  is  to  meet  the  Astrardente  to-morrow 
at  the  appointed  time,  and  simply  present  these  papers  for  in¬ 
spection.  No  one  can  deny  their  authenticity,  for  they  bear 
the  Government  stamp  and  the  notary’s  seal,  as  you  see,  here 
and  here.  If  they  ask  you,  as  they  certainly  will,  how  you 
came  by  them,  you  can  afford  to  answer,  that,  since  you  have 
them,  it  is  not  necessary  to  know  whence  they  came;  that  they 
may  go  and  verify  the  originals;  and  that  in  warning  them  of 
the  fact,  you  have  fulfilled  a  duty  to  society,  and  have  done  a 
service  to  the  Astrardente,  if  not  to  Giovanni  Saracinesca. 
You  have  them  in  your  power,  and  you  can  afford  to  take  the 
high  hand  in  the  matter.  They  must  believe  the  evidence  of 
their  senses;  and  they  must  either  allow  that  Giovanni’s  first 
wife  is  alive,  or  they  must  account  forTier  death,  and  prove  it. 
There  is  no  denial  possible  in  the  face  of  these  proofs.” 

Donna  Tullia  drew  a  long  breath,  for  the  case  seemed  per¬ 
fectly  clear;  and  the  anticipation  of  her  triumph  already 
atoned  for  the  sacrifice  she  had  made. 

“You  are  a  wonderful  man,  Del  Ferice!”  she  exclaimed. 
“  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  wise  in  promising  to  marry  you, 
but  I  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  your  intellect.” 

Del  Ferice  glanced  at  her  and  smiled.  Then  he  made  as 
though  he  would  return  the  papers  to  his  pocket.  She  sprang 
towards  him,  and  seized  him  by  the  wrist. 

“  Do  not  be  afraid  !  ”  she  cried,  “  I  will  keep  my  promise.” 

“  Solemnly  ?  ”  he  asked,  still  smiling,  and  holding  the  enve¬ 
lope  firmly  in  his  hand. 

“Solemnly,”  she  answered;  and  then  added,  with  a  quick 
laugh,  “  but  you  are  so  abominably  clever,  that  I  believe  you 
could  make  me  marry  you  against  my  will.” 

“Never  !”  said  Del  Ferice,  earnestly;  “I  love  you  far  too 


SARACIKESCA. 


269 


much.”  He  had  wonderfully  clear  instincts.  “  And  now,”  he 
continued,  “we  have  settled  that  matter;  when  shall  the  happy 
day  be?” 

“  Oh,  there  is  time  enough  to  think  of  that,”  answered  Donna 
Tullia,  with  a  blush  that  might  have  passed  for  the  result  of  a 
coy  shyness,  but  which  was  in  reality  caused  by  a  certain  annoy¬ 
ance  at  being  pressed. 

“  No,”  objected  Del  Ferice,  “  we  must  announce  our  engage¬ 
ment  at  once.  There  is  no  reason  for  delay — to-day  is  better 
than  to-morrow.” 

“  To-day  ?  ”  repeated  Donna  Tullia,  in  some  alarm. 

“  Why  not  ?  Why  not,  my  dear  lady,  since  you  and  I  are 
both  in  earnest  ?  ” 

“  I  think  it  would  be  much  better  to  let  this  affair  pass  first.” 

“  On  the  contrary,”  he  argued,  “  from  the  moment  we  are 
publicly  engaged  I  become  your  natural  protector.  If  any  one 
offers  you  any  insult  in  this  matter,  I  shall  then  have  an 
acknowledged  right  to  avenge  you — a  right  I  dearly  covet. 
Do  you  think  I  would  dread  to  meet  Don  Giovanni  again  ? 
He  wounded  me,  it  is  true,  but  he  has  the  marks  of  my  sword 
upon  his  body  also.  Give  me  at  once  the  privilege  of  appear¬ 
ing  as  your  champion,  and  you  will  not  regret  it.  But  if  you 
delay  doing  so,  all  sorts  of  circumstances  may  arise,  all  sorts  of 
unpleasantness — who  could  protect  you  ?  Of  course,  even  in 
that  case  I  would;  but  you  know  the  tongues  of  the  gossips  in 
Rome — it  would  do  you  harm  instead  of  good.” 

“  That  is  true,  and  you  are  very  brave  and  very  kind.  But 
it  seems  almost  too  soon,”  objected  Donna  Tullia,  who,  how¬ 
ever,  was  fast  learning  to  yield  to  his  judgment. 

“  Those  things  cannot  be  done  too  soon.  It  gives  us  liberty, 
and  it  gives  the  world  satisfaction;  it  protects  you,  and  it  will 
be  an  inestimable  pleasure  to  me.  Why  delay  the  inevitable  ? 
Let  us  appear  at  once  as  engaged  to  be  married,  and  you  put  a 
sword  in  my  hand  to  defend  you  and  to  enforce  your  position 
in  this  unfortunate  affair  with  the  Astrardente.” 

“  Well,  you  may  announce  it  if  you  please,”  she  answered, 
reluctantly. 

“Thank  you,  my  dear  lady,”  said  Del  Ferice.  “And  here 
are  the  papers.  Make  the  best  use  of  them  you  can — any  use 
that  you  make  of  them  will  be  good,  I  know.  How  could  it 
be  otherwise  ?” 

Donna  Tullia’s  fingers  closed  upon  the  large  envelope  with  a 
grasping  grip,  as  though  she  would  never  relinquish  that  for 
which  she  had  paid  so  dear  a  price.  She  had,  indeed,  at  one 
time  almost  despaired  of  getting  possession  of  them,  and  she 
had  passed  a  terrible  hour,  besides  having  abased  herself  to  the 
fruitless  bribery  she  had  practised  upon  Temistocle.  But  she 


270 


SARACIKESCA. 


had  gained  her  end,  even  at  the  expense  of  permitting  Del 
Ferice  to  publish  her  engagement  to  marry  him.  She  felt  that 
she  could  break  it  off  if  she  decided  at  last  that  the  union  was 
too  distasteful  to  her;  but  she  foresaw  that,  from  the  point  of 
worldly  ambition,  she  would  be  no  great  loser  by  marrying  a 
man  of  such  cunning  wit,  who  possessed  such  weapons  against 
his  enemies,  and  who,  on  the  whole,  as  she  believed,  entirely 
sympathised  with  her  view  of  life.  She  recognised  that  her 
chances  of  making  a  great  match  were  diminishing  rapidly; 
she  could  not  tell  precisely  why,  but  she  felt,  to  her  mortifica- 
tion,  that  she  had  not  made  a  good  use  of  her  rich  widowhood : 
people  did  not  respect  her  much,  and  as  this  touched  her  vanity, 
she  was  susceptible  to  their  lack  of  deference.  She  had  done 
no  harm,  but  she  knew  that  every  one  thought  her  an  irre¬ 
sponsible  woman,  and  the  thrifty  Romans  feared  her  extrava¬ 
gance,  though  some  of  them  perhaps  courted  her  fortune: 
many  had  admired  her,  and  had  to  some  extent  expressed  their 
devotion,  but  no  scion  of  all  the  great  families  had  asked  her 
to  be  his  wife.  The  nearest  approach  to  a  proposal  had  been 
the  doubtful  attention  she  had  received  from  Giovanni  Sara- 
cinesca  during  the  time  when  his  headstrong  father  had  almost 
persuaded  him  to  marry  her,  and  she  thought  of  her  disap¬ 
pointed  hopes  with  much  bitterness.  To  destroy  Giovanni  by 
the  revelations  she  now  proposed  to  make,  to  marry  Del  Ferice, 
and  then  to  develop  her  position  by  means  of  the  large  fortune 
she  had  inherited  from  her  first  husband,  seemed  on  the  whole 
a  wise  plan.  Del  Ferice's  title  was  not  much,  to  be  sure,  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  was  intimate  with  every  one  she  knew, 
and  for  a  few  thousand  scudi  she  could  buy  some  small  estate 
with  a  good  title  attached  to  it.  She  would  then  change  her 
mode  of  life,  and  assume  the  pose  of  a  social  power,  which  as  a 
young  widow  she  could  not  do.  It  was  not  so  bad,  after  all, 
especially  if  she  could  celebrate  the  first  day  of  her  engagement 
by  destroying  the  reputation  of  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  root  and 
branch,  and  dealing  a  blow  at  Corona's  happiness  from  which 
it  would  not  recover. 

As  for  Del  Ferice,  he  regarded  his  triumph  as  complete.  He 
cared  little  what  became  of  Giovanni — whether  he  was  able  to 
refute  the  evidence  brought  against  him  or  not.  There  had 
been  nothing  in  the  matter  which  was  dishonest,  and  properly 
made  out  marriage-certificates  are  not  easy  things  to  annul. 
Giovanni  might  swim  or  sink — it  was  nothing  to  Ugo  del 
Ferice,  now  that  he  had  gained  the  great  object  of  his  life,  and 
was  at  liberty  to  publish  his  engagement  to  Donna  Tullia 
Mayer.  He  lost  no  time  in  telling  his  friends  the  good  news, 
and  before  the  evening  was  over  a  hundred  people  had  con¬ 
gratulated  him.  Donna  Tullia,  too,  appeared  in  more  than 


SARACINESCA. 


271 


usually  gay  attire,  and  smilingly  received  the  expressions  of 
good  wishes  which  were  showered  upon  her.  She  was  not  in¬ 
clined  to  question  the  sincerity  of  those  who  spoke,  for  in  her 
present  mood  the  stimulus  of  a  little  popular  noise  was  soothing 
to  her  nerves,  which  had  been  badly  strained  by  the  excitement 
of  the  day.  When  she  closed  her  eyes  she  had  evil  visions  of 
Temistocle  retreating  at  full  speed  down  the  stairs  with  his 
unearned  bribe,  or  of  Del  Ferice’s  calm,  pale  face,  as  he  had  sat 
in  her  house  that  afternoon  grasping  the  precious  documents 
in  his  hand  until  she  promised  to  pay  the  price  he  asked,  which 
was  herself.  But  she  smiled  at  each  new  congratulation  readily 
enough,  and  said  in  her  heart  that  she  would  yet  become  a  great 
power  in  society,  and  make  her  house  the  centre  of  all  attrac¬ 
tions.  And  meanwhile  she  pondered  on  the  title  she  should 
buy  for  her  husband :  she  came  of  high  blood  herself,  and  she 
knew  how  such  dignities  as  a  “  principe  ”  or  a  “  duca  ”  were 
regarded  when  bought.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  find 
some  snug  little  marquisate — “  marchese  ”  sounded  very  well, 
though  one  could  not  be  called  “  eccellenza  ”  by  one’s  servants ; 
still,  as  the  daughter  of  a  prince,  she  might  manage  even  that. 
“  Marchese  ” — yes,  that  would  do.  What  a  pity  there  were  only 
four  “ canopy”  marquises — “marchesi  del  baldacchino” — in 
Rome  with  the  rank  of  princes !  That  was  exactly  the  combi¬ 
nation  of  dignities  Donna  Tullia  required  for  her  husband. 
But  once  a  “  marchese,”  if  she  was  very  charitable,  and  did 
something  in  the  way  of  a  public  work,  the  Holy  Father  might 
condescend  to  make  Del  Ferice  a  “duca”  in  the  ordinary 
course  as  a  step  in  the  nobility.  Donna  Tullia  dreamed  many 
things  that  night,  and  she  afterwards  accomplished  most  of 
them,  to  the  surprise  of  everybody,  and,  if  the  truth  were  told, 
to  her  own  considerable  astonishment. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

“  Giovanni,  you  are  the  victim  of  some  outrageous  plot,”  said 
old  Saracinesca,  entering  his  son’s  room  on  the  following  morn¬ 
ing.  “  I  have  thought  it  all  out  in  the  night,  and  I  am  con¬ 
vinced  of  it.” 

Giovanni  was  extended  upon  a  sofa,  with  a  book  in  his  hand 
and  a  cigar  between  his  lips.  He  looked  up  quietly  from  his 
reading. 

"I  am  not  the  victim  yet,  nor  ever  will  be,”  he  answered; 
“but  it  is  evident  that  there  is  something  at  the  bottom  of  this 
besides  Madame  Mayer’s  imagination.  I  will  find  out.” 

“What  pleases  me  especially,”  remarked  the  old  Prince,  “is 
the  wonderful  originality  of  the  idea.  It  would  have  been  com¬ 
monplace  to  make  out  that  you  had  poisoned  half-a-dozen  wives, 


272 


SARACINESCA. 


and  buried  their  bodies  in  the  vaults  of  Saracinesca;  it  would 
have  been  lanal  to  say  that  you  were  not  yourself,  but  some 
one  else;  or  to  assert  that  you  were  a  revolutionary  agent  in 
disguise,  and  that  the  real  Giovanni  had  been  murdered  by  you, 
who  had  taken  his  place  without  my  discovering  it, — very  com¬ 
monplace  all  that.  But  to  say  that  you  actually  have  a  living 
wife,  and  to  try  to  prove  it  by  documents,  is  an  idea  worthy  of 
a  great  mind.  It  takes  one’s  breath  away.” 

Giovanni  laughed. 

“  It  will  end  in  our  having  to  go  to  Aquila  in  search  of  my 
supposed  better  half,”  he  said.  “Aquila,  of  all  places!  If  she 
had  said  Paris — or  even  Florence — but  why,  in  the  name  of 
geography,  Aquila?” 

“  She  probably  looked  for  some  out-of-the-wray  place  upon  an 
alphabetical  list,”  laughed  the  Prince.  “  Aquila  stood  first. 
We  shall  know  in  two  hours — come  along.  It  is  time  to  be 
going.” 

They  found  Corona  in  her  boudoir.  She  had  passed  an  un¬ 
easy  hour  on  the  previous  afternoon  after  they  had  left  her,  but 
her  equanimity  was  now  entirely  restored.  She  had  made  up 
her  mind  that,  however  ingenious  the  concocted  evidence  might 
turn  out  to  be,  it  was  absolutely  impossible  to  harm  Giovanni 
by  means  of  it.  His  position  was  beyond  attack,  as,  in  her 
mind,  his  character  was  above  slander.  Far  from  experiencing 
any  sensation  of  anxiety  as  to  the  result  of  Donna  Tullia’s 
visit,  what  she  most  felt  was  curiosity  to  see  what  these  fancied 
proofs  would  be  like.  She  still  believed  that  Madame  Mayer 
was  mad. 

“I  have  been  remarking  to  Giovanni  upon  Donna  Tullia’s 
originality,”  said  old  Saracinesca.  “  It  is  charming;  it  shows  a 
talent  for  fiction  which  the  world  has  been  long  in  realising, 
which  we  have  not  even  suspected — an  amazing  and  transcen¬ 
dent  genius  for  invention.” 

“  It  is  pure  insanity,”  answered  Corona,  in  a  tone  of  convic¬ 
tion.  “  The  woman  is  mad.” 

“  Mad  as  an  Englishman,”  asseverated  the  Prince,  using  the 
most  powerful  simile  in  the  Italian  language.  “We  will  have 
her  in  Santo  Spirito  before  night,  and  she  will  puzzle  the  doc¬ 
tors.” 

“  She  is  not  mad,”  said  Giovanni,  quietly.  “  I  do  not  even 
believe  we  shall  find  that  her  documents  are  forgeries.” 

“What?”  cried  his  father.  Corona  looked  quickly  at  Gio¬ 
vanni. 

“You  yourself,”  said  the  latter,  turning  to  old  Saracinesca, 
“  were  assuring  me  half  an  hour  ago  that  1  was  the  victim  of  a 
plot.  Now,  if  anything  of  the  kind  is  seriously  attempted,  you 
may  be  sure  it  will  be  well  done.  She  has  a  good  ally  in  the 


SARACEN- ESC  A. 


273 


man  to  whom  she  is  engaged.  Del  Ferice  is  no  fool,  and  he 
hates  me.” 

“  Del  Ferice !  ”  exclaimed  Corona,  in  surprise.  As  she  went 
nowhere  as  yet,  she  had,  of  course,  not  heard  the  news  which 
had  been  published  on  the  previous  evening.  “  You  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  she  is  going  to  marry  Del  Ferice  ?  ” 

“Yes,  indeed,”  said  Giovanni.  “They  both  appeared  last 
night  and  announced  the  fact,  and  received  everybody’s  con¬ 
gratulations.  It  is  a  most  appropriate  match.” 

“  I  agree  with  you — a  beautiful  triangular  alliteration  of  wit, 
wealth,  and  wickedness,”  observed  the  Prince.  “  He  has  brains, 
she  has  money,  and  they  are  both  as  had  as  possible.” 

“I  thought  you  used  to  like  Donna  Tullia,”  said  Corona, 
suppressing  a  smile. 

“  I  did,”  said  old  Saracinesca,  stoutly.  “  I  wanted  Giovanni 
to  marry  her.  It  has  pleased  Providence  to  avert  that  awful 
catastrophe.  I  liked  Madame  Mayer  because  she  was  rich  and 
noisy  and  good-looking,  and  I  thought  that,  as  Giovanni’s  wife, 
she  would  make  the  house  gay.  We  are  such  a  pair  of  solemn 
bears  together,  that  it  seemed  appropriate  that  somebody  should 
make  us  dance.  It  was  a  foolish  idea,  I  confess,  though  I 
thought  it  very  beautiful  at  the  time.  It  merely  shows  how 
liable  we  are  to  make  mistakes.  Imagine  Giovanni  married  to 
a  lunatic !  ” 

“  I  repeat  that  she  is  not  mad,”  said  Giovanni.  “  I  cannot 
tell  how  they  have  managed  it,  but  I  am  sure  it  has  been 
managed  well,  and  will  give  us  trouble.  You  will  see.” 

“  I  do  not  understand  at  all  how  there  can  be  any  trouble 
about  it,”  said  Corona,  proudly.  “  It  is  perfectly  simple  for  us 
to  tell  the  truth,  and  to  show  that  what  they  say  is  a  lie.  You 
can  prove  easily  enough  that  you  were  in  Canada  at  the  time. 
I  wish  it  were  time  for  her  to  come.  Let  us  go  to  breakfast  in 
the  meanwhile.” 

The  views  taken  by  the  three  were  characteristic  of  their 
various  natures.  The  old  Prince,  who  was  violent  of  temper, 
and  inclined  always  to  despise  an  enemy  in  any  shape,  scoffed 
at  the  idea  that  there  was  anything  to  show ;  and  though  his 
natural  wit  suggested  from  time  to  time  that  there  was  a  plot 
against  his  son,  his  general  opinion  was,  that  it  was  a  singular 
case  of  madness.  He  hardly  believed  Donna  Tullia  would 
appear  at  all;  and  if  she  did,  he  expected  some  extraordinary 
outburst,  some  pitiable  exhibition  of  insanity.  Corona,  on  the 
other  hand,  maintained  a  proud  indifference,  scorning  to  suppose 
that  anything  could  possibly  injure  Giovanni  in  any  way,  loving 
him  too  entirely  to  admit  that  he  was  vulnerable  at  all,  still  less 
that  he  could  possibly  have  done  anything  to  give  colour  to  the 
accusation  brought  against  him.  Giovanni  alone  of  all  the  three 


274 


SARACIKESCA. 


foresaw  that  there  would  be  trouble,  and  dimly  guessed  how  the 
thing  had  been  done ;  for  he  did  not  fall  into  his  father’s  error 
of  despising  an  enemy,  and  he  had  seen  too  much  of  the  world 
not  to  understand  that  danger  is  often  greatest  when  the  appear¬ 
ance  of  it  is  least. 

Breakfast  was  hardly  over  when  Donna  Tullia  was  announced. 
All  rose  to  meet  her,  and  all  looked  at  her  with  equal  interest. 
She  was  calmer  than  on  the  previous  day,  and  she  carried  a 
package  of  papers  in  her  hand.  Her  red  lips  were  compressed, 
and  her  eyes  looked  defiantly  round  upon  all  present.  What¬ 
ever  might  be  her  faults,  she  was  not  a  coward  when  brought 
face  to  face  with  danger.  She  was  determined  to  carry  the 
matter  through,  both  because  she  knew  that  she  had  no  other 
alternative,  and  because  she  believed  herself  to  be  doing  a 
righteous  act,  which,  at  the  same  time,  fully  satisfied  her  desire 
for  vengeance.  She  came  forward  boldly  and  stood  beside  the 
table  in  the  midst  of  the  room.  Corona  was  upon  one  side  of 
the  fireplace,  and  the  two  Saracinesca  upon  the  other.  All 
three  held  their  breath  in  expectation  of  what  Donna  Tullia  was 
about  to  say;  the  sense  of  her  importance  impressed  her,  and 
her  love  of  dramatic  situations  being  satisfied,  she  assumed 
something  of  the  air  of  a  theatrical  avenging  angel,  and  her 
utterance  was  rhetorical. 

"I  come  here,”  she  said,  “at  your  invitation,  to  exhibit  to 
your  eyes  the  evidence  of  what  I  yesterday  asserted — the  evi¬ 
dence  of  the  monstrous  crime  of  which  I  accuse  that  man.” 
Here  she  raised  her  finger  with  a  gesture  of  scorn,  and  extend¬ 
ing  her  whole  arm,  pointed  towards  Giovanni. 

“  Madam,”  interrupted  the  old  Prince,  “  I  will  trouble  you  to 
select  your  epithets  and  expressions  with  more  care.  Pray  be 
brief,  and  show  what  you  have  brought.” 

“I  will  show  it,  indeed,”  replied  Donna  Tullia,  “and  you 
shall  tremble  at  what  you  see.  When  you  have  evidence  of  the 
truth  of  what  I  say,  you  may  choose  any  language  you  please  to 
define  the  action  of  your  son.  These  documents,”  she  said, 
holding  up  the  package,  “are  attested  copies  made  from  the 
originals — the  first  two  in  the  possession  of  the  curate  of  the 
church  of  San  Bernardino  da  Siena,  at  Aquila,  the  other  in  the 
office  of  the  Stato  Civile  in  the  same  city.  As  they  are  only 
copies,  you  need  not  think  that  you  will  gain  anything  by  de¬ 
stroying  them.” 

“Spare  your  comments  upon  our  probable  conduct,”  inter¬ 
rupted  the  Prince,  roughly.  Donna  Tullia  eyed  him  with  a 
scornful  glance,  and  her  face  began  to  grow  red. 

“You  may  destroy  them  if  you  please,”  she  repeated;  “but  I 
advise  you  to  observe  that  they  bear  the  Government  stamp  and 
the  notarial  seal  of  Gianbattista  Caldani,  notary  public  in  the 


SARACINESCA. 


275 


city  of  Aquila,  and  that  they  are,  consequently,  beyond  all  doubt 
genuine  copies  of  genuine  documents.” 

Donna  Tullia  proceeded  to  open  the  envelope  and  withdraw 
the  three  papers  it  contained.  Spreading  them  out,  she  took 
up  the  first,  which  contained  the  extract  from  the  curate’s  book 
of  banns.  It  set  forth  that  upon  the  three  Sundays  preceding 
the  19th  of  June  1863,  the  said  curate  had  published,  in  the 
parish  church  of  San  Bernardino  da  Siena,  the  banns  of  marriage 
between  Giovanni  Saracinesca  and  Felice  Baldi.  Donna  Tullia 
read  it  aloud. 

Giovanni  could  hardly  suppress  a  laugh,  it  sounded  so 
strangely.  Corona  herself  turned  pale,  though  she  firmly  be¬ 
lieved  the  whole  thing  to  be  an  imposture  of  some  kind. 

“  Permit  me,  madam,”  said  old  Saracinesca,  stepping  forward 
and  taking  the  paper  from  her  hand.  He  carefully  examined 
the  seal  and  stamp.  “  It  is  very  cleverly  done,”  he  said  with  a 
sneer;  “but  there  should  be  only  one  letter  r  in  the  name 
Saracinesca — here  it  is  spelt  with  two  !  Very  clever,  but  a 
slight  mistake  !  Observe,”  he  said,  showing  the  place  to  Donna 
Tullia. 

“  It  is  a  mistake  of  the  copyist,”  she  said,  scornfully.  “  The 
name  is  properly  spelt  in  the  other  papers.  Here  is  the  copy  of 
the  marriage  register.  Shall  I  read  it  also  ?” 

“Spare  me  the  humiliation,”  said  Giovanni,  in  quiet  con¬ 
tempt.  “  Spare  me  the  unutterable  mortification  of  discovering 
that  there  is  another  Giovanni  Saracinesca  in  the  world!  ” 

“  I  could  not  have  believed  that  any  one  could  be  so  hard¬ 
ened,”  said  Donna  Tullia.  “  But  whether  you  are  humiliated  or 
not  by  the  evidence  of  your  misdeeds,  I  will  spare  you  nothing. 
Here  it  is  in  full,  and  you  may  notice  that  your  name  is  spelt 
properly  too.” 

She  held  up  the  document  and  then  read  it  out — the  copy  of 
the  curate’s  register,  stating  that  on  the  19th  of  June  1863 
Giovanni  Saracinesca  and  Felice  Baldi  were  united  in  holy 
matrimony  in  the  church  of  San  Bernardino  da  Siena.  She 
handed  the  paper  to  the  Prince,  and  then  read  the  extract  from 
the  register  of  the  Civil  marriage  and  the  notary’s  attestation  to 
the  signatures.  She  gave  this  also  to  old  Saracinesca,  and  then 
folding  her  arms  in  a  fine  attitude,  confronted  the  three. 

“  Are  you  satisfied  that  I  spoke  the  truth  ?  ”  she  asked, 
defiantly. 

“The  thing  is  certainly  remarkably  well  done,”  answered  the 
old  Prince,  who  scrutinised  the  papers  with  a  puzzled  air. 
Though  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  his  son  had  been  in  Canada 
at  the  time  of  this  pretended  marriage,  he  confessed  to  himself 
that  if  such  evidence  had  been  brought  against  any  other  man- 
he  would  have  believed  it. 


276 


SARACINESCA. 


“  It  is  a  shameful  fraud !  ”  exclaimed  Corona,  looking  at  the 
papers  over  the  old  man’s  shoulder. 

“  That  is  a  lie ! ”  cried  Donna  Tullia,  growing  scarlet  with 
anger. 

“  Do  not  forget  your  manners,  or  you  will  get  into  trouble,” 
said  Giovanni,  sternly.  “  I  see  through  the  whole  thing.  There 
has  .been  no  fraud,  and  yet  the  deductions  are  entirely  untrue. 
In  the  first  place,  Donna  Tullia,  how  do  you  make  the  state¬ 
ments  here  given  to  coincide  with  the  fact  that  during  the 
whole  summer  of  1863  and  during  the  early  part  of  1864  I  was 
in  Canada  with  a  party  of  gentlemen,  who  are  all  alive  to  testify 
to  the  fact  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  believe  it,”  answered  Madame  Mayer,  contemptu¬ 
ously.  “  I  would  not  believe  your  friends  if  they  were  here 
and  swore  to  it.  You  will  very  likely  produce  witnesses  to 
prove  that  you  were  in  the  arctic  regions  last  summer,  as  the 
newspapers  said,  whereas  every  one  knows  now  that  you  were  at 
Saracinesca.  You  are  exceedingly  clever  at  concealing  your 
movements,  as  we  all  know.” 

Giovanni  did  not  lose  his  temper,  but  calmly  proceeded  to 
demonstrate  his  theory. 

“  You  will  find  that  the  courts  of  law  will  accept  the  evidence 
of  gentlemen  upon  oath,”  he  replied,  quietly.  "  Moreover,  as  a 
further  evidence,  and  a  piece  of  very  singular  proof,  I  can  pro¬ 
bably  produce  Giovanni  Saracinesca  and  Felice  Baldi  themselves 
to  witness  against  you.  And  I  apprehend  that  the  said  Gio¬ 
vanni  Saracinesca  will  vehemently  protest  that  the  said  Felice 
Baldi  is  his  wife,  and  not  mine.” 

"You  speak  in  wonderful  riddles,  but  you  will  not  deceive 
me.  Money  will  doubtless  do  much,  but  it  will  not  do  what 
you  expect.” 

“  Certainly  not,”  returned  Giovanni,  unmoved  by  her  reply. 
“  Money  will  certainly  not  create  out  of  nothing  a  second  Gio¬ 
vanni  Saracinesca,  nor  his  circle  of  acquaintances,  nor  the  police 
registers  concerning  him  which  are  kept  throughout  the  king¬ 
dom  of  Italy,  very  much  as  they  are  kept  here  in  the  Pontifical 
States.  Money  will  do  none  of  these  things.” 

While  he  was  speaking,  his  father  and  the  Duchessa  listened 
with  intense  interest. 

“  Donna  Tullia,”  continued  Giovanni,  “  I  am  willing  to  be¬ 
lieve  from  your  manner  that  you  are  really  sure  that  I  am  the 
man  mentioned  in  your  papers;  but  permit  me  to  inform  you 
that  you  have  been  made  the  victim  of  a  shallow  trick,  probably 
by  the  person  who  gave  those  ,  same  papers  into  your  hands, 
and  suggested  to  you  the  use  you  have  made  of  them.” 

"I?  I,  the  victim  of  a  trick?”  repeated  Donna  Tullia, 
frightened  at  last  by  his  obstinately  calm  manner. 


SARACINESCA. 


277 


“  Yes,”  he  replied.  “  I  know  Aquila  and  the  Abruzzi  very 
well.  It  chances  that  although  we,  the  Saracinesca  of  Rome,  are 
not  numerous,  the  name  is  not  uncommon  in  that  part  of  the 
country.  It  is  the  same  with  all  our  great  names.  There  are 
Oolonna,  Orsini,  Caetani  all  over  the  country — there  are  even 
many  families  bearing  the  name  of  the  Medici,  who  are  extinct. 
You  know  it  as  well  as  I,  or  you  should  know  it,  for  I  believe 
your  mother  was  my  father’s  cousin.  Has  it  not  struck  you 
that  this  same  Giovanni  Saracinesca  herein  mentioned,  is  sim¬ 
ply  some  low-born  namesake  of  mine  ?  ” 

Donna  Tullia  had  grown  very  pale,  and  she  leaned  upon  the 
table  as  though  she  were  faint.  The  others  listened  breath¬ 
lessly. 

“  I  do  not  believe  it,”  said  Madame  Mayer,  in  a  low  and 
broken  voice. 

“  Now  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do,”  continued  Giovanni. 
“  I  will  go  to  Aquila  at  once,  and  I  daresay  my  father  will  ac¬ 
company  me - ” 

“  Of  course  I  will,”  broke  in  the  old  Prince. 

“We  will  go,  and  in  a  fortnight’s  time  we  will  produce  the 
whole  history  of  this  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  together  with  his 
wife  and  himself  in  his  own  person,  if  they  are  both  alive;  we 
will  bring  them  here,  and  they  will  assure  you  that  you  have 
been  egregiously  deceived,  played  upon  and  put  in  a  false  posi¬ 
tion  by — by  the  person  who  furnished  you  with  these  docu¬ 
ments.  I  wonder  that  any  Roman  of  common-sense  should 
not  have  seen  at  once  the  cause  of  this  mistake.” 

“  I  cannot  believe  it,”  murmured  Donna  Tullia.  Then  rais¬ 
ing  her  voice,  she  added,  “  Whatever  may  be  the  result  of  your 
inquiry,  I  cannot  but  feel  that  I  have  done  my  duty  in  this 
affair.  I  do  not  believe  in  your  theory,  nor  in  you,  and  I  shall 
not,  until  you  produce  this  other  man.  I  have  done  my 
duty - ” 

“  An  exceedingly  painful  one,  no  doubt,”  remarked  old  Sara¬ 
cinesca.  Then  he  broke  into  a  loud  peal  of  laughter. 

“  And  if  you  do  not  succeed  in  your  search,  it  will  be  my 
duty,  in  the  interests  of  society,  to  put  the  matter  in  the  hands 
of  the  police.  Since  you  have  the  effrontery  to  say  that  those 
papers  are  of  no  use,  I  demand  them  back.” 

“Not  at  all,  madam,”  replied  the  Prince,  whose  laughter 
subsided  at  the  renewed  boldness  of  her  tone.  “  I  will  not  give 
them  back  to  you.  I  intend  to  compare  them  with  the  origi¬ 
nals.  If  there  are  no  originals,  they  will  serve  very  well  to 
commit  the  notary  whose  seal  is  on  them,  and  yourself,  upon  a 
well-founded  indictment  for  forgery,  wilful  calumniation,  and 
a  whole  list  of  crimes  sufficient  to  send  you  to  the  galleys  for 
life.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  originals  exist,  they  can  be  of 


278 


SARACINESCA. 


no  possible  value  to  you,  as  you  can  send  to  Aquila  and  have 
fresh  copies  made  whenever  you  please,  as  you  yourself  in¬ 
formed  me.” 

Things  were  taking  a  bad  turn  for  Donna  Tullia.  She  be¬ 
lieved  the  papers  to  be  genuine,  but  a  fearful  doubt  crossed 
her  mind  that  Del  Ferice  might  possibly  have  deceived  her  by 
having  them  manufactured.  Anybody  could  buy  Government 
paper,  and  it  would  be  but  a  simple  matter  to  have  a  notary’s 
seal  engraved.  She  was  terrified  at  the  idea,  but  there  was  no 
possibility  of  getting  the  documents  back  from  the  old  Prince, 
who  held  them  firmly  in  his  broad  brown  hand.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  face  the  situation  out  to  the  end  and  go. 

“  As  you  please,”  she  said.  “  It  is  natural  that  you  should 
insult  me,  a  defenceless  woman  trying  to  do  what  is  right.  It 
is  worthy  of  your  race  and  reputation.  I  will  leave  you  to  the 
consideration  of  the  course  you  intend  to  follow,  and  I  advise 
you  to  omit  nothing  which  can  help  to  prove  the  innocence  of 
your  son.” 

Donna  Tullia  bestowed  one  more  glance  of  contemptuous 
defiance  upon  the  group,  and  brushed  angrily  out  of  the  room. 

“  So  much  for  her  madness  !  ”  exclaimed  Giovanni,  when  she 
was  gone.  “  I  think  I  have  got  to  the  bottom  of  that  affair.” 

“  It  seems  so  simple,  and  yet  I  never  thought  of  it,”  said 
Corona.  “  How  clever  you  are,  Giovanni  !  ” 

“  There  was  not  much  cleverness  needed  to  see  through  so 
shallow  a  trick,”  replied  Giovanni.  “  I  suspected  it  this  morn¬ 
ing;  and  when  I  saw  that  the  documents  were  genuine  and  all 
in  order,  I  was  convinced  of  it.  This  thing  has  been  done  by 
Del  Ferice,  I  suppose  in  order  to  revenge  himself  upon  me  for 
nearly  killing  him  in  fair  fight.  It  was  a  noble  plan.  With  a 
little  more  intelligence  and  a  little  more  pains,  he  could  have 
given  me  great  trouble.  Certificates  like  those  he  produced,  if 
they  had  come  from  a  remote  French  village  in  Canada,  would 
have  given  us  occupation  for  some  time.” 

“I  wish  Donna  Tullia  joy  of  her  husband,”  remarked  the 
Prince.  “  He  will  spend  her  money  in  a  year  or  two,  and  then 
leave  her  to  the  contemplation  of  his  past  extravagance.  I 
wonder  how  he  induced  her  to  consent.” 

“  Many  people  like  Del  Ferice,”  said  Giovanni.  “  He  is 
popular,  and  has  attractions.” 

“  How  can  you  say  that  !  ”  exclaimed  Corona,  indignantly. 
“  You  should  have  a  better  opinion  of  women  than  to  think 
any  woman  could  find  attractions  in  such  a  man.” 

“  Nevertheless,  Donna  Tullia  is  going  to  marry  him,”  re¬ 
turned  Giovanni.  “  She  must  find  him  to  her  taste.  I  used 
to  think  she  might  have  married  Yaldarno — he  is  so  good- 
natured  you  know  !  ” 


SARACINESCA. 


279 


Giovanni  spoke  in  a  tone  of  reflection ;  the  other  two  laughed. 

“  And  now,  Giovannino,”  said  his  father,  “  we  must  set  out 
for  Aquila,  and  find  your  namesake.” 

“  You  will  not  really  go  ?  ”  asked  Corona,  with  a  look  of  dis¬ 
appointment.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  being  sepa¬ 
rated  even  for  a  day  from  the  man  she  loved. 

“  I  do  not  see  that  we  can  do  anything  else,”  returned  the 
Prince.  “  I  must  satisfy  myself  whether  those  papers  are  for¬ 
geries  or  not.  If  they  are,  that  woman  must  go  to  prison  for 
them.” 

“  But  she  is  our  cousin — you  cannot  do  that,”  objected  Gio¬ 
vanni. 

“  Indeed  I  will.  I  am  angry.  Do  not  try  to  stop  me.  Do 
you  suppose  I  care  anything  for  the  relationship  in  comparison 
with  repaying  her  for  all  this  trouble  ?  You  are  not  going  to 
turn  merciful,  Giovanni  ?  I  should  not  recognise  you.” 

There  was  a  sort  of  mournful  reproach  about  the  old 
Prince’s  tone,  as  though  he  were  reproving  his  son  for  having 
fallen  from  the  paths  of  virtue.  Corona  laughed;  she  was  not 
hard-hearted,  but  she  was  not  so  angelic  of  nature  as  to  be 
beyond  feeling  deep  and  lasting  resentment  for  injuries  re¬ 
ceived.  At  that  moment  the  idea  of  bringing  Donna  Tullia  to 
justice  was  pleasant. 

“  Well,”  said  Giovanni,  “no' human  being  can  boast  of  hav¬ 
ing  ever  prevented  you  from  doing  whatever  you  were  deter¬ 
mined  to  do.  The  best  thing  that  can  happen  will  be,  that  you 
should  find  the  papers  genuine,  and  my  namesake  alive.  I 
wish  Aquila  were  Florence  or  Naples,”  he  added,  turning  to 
Corona;  “  you  might  manage  to  go  at  the  same  time.” 

“  That  is  impossible,”  she  answered,  sadly.  “  How  long  will 
you  be  gone,  do  you  think  ?  ” 

Giovanni  did  not  believe  that,  if  the  papers  were  genuine, 
and  if  they  had  to  search  for  the  man  mentioned  in  them,  they 
could  return  in  less  than  a  fortnight. 

“  Why  not  send  a  detective — a  sbirro  ?  ”  suggested  Corona. 

“  He  could  not  accomplish  anything,”  replied  the  Prince. 
“  He  would  be  at  a  great  disadvantage  there;  we  must  go  our¬ 
selves.” 

“Both?”  asked  Corona,  regretfully,  gazing  at  Giovanni’s  face. 

“  It  is  my  business,”  replied  the  latter.  “  I  can  hardly  ask 
my  father  to  go  alone.” 

“  Absurd !  ”  exclaimed  the  old  Prince,  resenting  the  idea  that 
he  needed  any  help  to  accomplish  his  mission.  “  Do  you  think 
I  need  some  one  to  take  care  of  me,  like  a  baby  in  arms  ?  I 
will  go  alone;  you  shall  not  come  even  if  you  wish  it.  Absurd, 
to  talk  of  my  needing  anybody  with  me!  I  will  show  you 
what  your  father  can  do  when  hi«  blood  is  up.” 


280 


SARACINESCA. 


Protestations  were  useless  after  that.  The  old  man  grew 
angry  at  the  opposition,  and,  regardless  of  all  propriety,  seized 
his  hat  and  left  the  room,  growling  that  he  was  as  good  as  any¬ 
body,  and  a  great  deal  better. 

Corona  and  Giovanni  looked  at  each  other  when  he  was 
gone,  and  smiled. 

“  I  believe  my  father  is  the  best  man  alive,”  said  Giovanni. 
“  He  would  go  in  a  moment  if  I  would  let  him.  I  will  go  after 
him  and  bring  him  back — I  suppose  I  ought.” 

“  I  suppose  so,”  answered  Corona;  but  as  they  stood  side  by 
side,  she  passed  her  hand  under  his  arm  affectionately,  and 
looked  into  his  eyes.  It  was  a  very  tender  look,  very  loving 
and  gentle — such  a  look  as  none  but  Giovanni  had  ever  seen 
upon  her  face.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  waistband  drew  her 
to  him,  and  kissed  her  dark  cheek. 

“  I  cannot  bear  to  go  away  and  leave  you,  even  for  a  day,”  he 
said,  pressing  her  to  his  side. 

“  Why  should  you  ?  ”  she  murmured,  looking  up  to  him. 
“  Why  should  he  go,  after  all  ?  This  has  been  such  a  silly 
affair.  I  wonder  if  that  woman  thought  that  anything  could 
ever  come  between  you  and  me  ?  That  was  what  made  me 
think  she  was  really  mad.” 

“And  an  excellent  reason,”  he  answered.  “Anybody  must 
be  insane  who  dreams  of  parting  us  two.  It  seems  as  though  a 
year  ago  I  had  not  loved  you  at  all.” 

“  I  am  so  glad,”  said  Corona.  “  Do  you  remember,  last  sum¬ 
mer,  on  the  tower  at  Saracinesca,  I  told  you  that  you  did  not 
know  what  love  was  ?  ” 

“  It  was  true,  Corona — I  did  not  know.  But  I  thought  I 
did.  I  never  imagined  what  the  happiness  of  love  was,  nor 
how  great  it  was,  nor  bow  it  could  enter  into  every  thought.” 

“  Into  every  thought  ?  Into  your  great  thoughts  too?” 

“  If  any  thoughts  of  mine  are  great,  they  are  so  because  you 
are  the  mainspring  of  them,”  he  answered. 

“Will  it  always  be  so  ?”  she  asked.  “You  will  be  a  very 
great  man  some  day,  Giovanni;  will  you  always  feel  that  I  am 
something  to  you  ?  ” 

“  Always — more  than  anything  to  me,  more  than  all  of  me 
together.” 

“  I  sometimes  wonder,”  said  Corona.  “  I  think  I  understand 
you  better  than  I  used  to  do.  I  like  to  think  that  you  feel 
how  I  understand  you  when  you  tell  me  anything.  Of  course 
I  am  not  clever  like  you,  but  I  love  you  so  much  that  just 
while  you  are  talking  I  seem  to  understand  everything.  It  is 
like  a  flash  of  light  in  a  dark  room.” 

Giovanni  kissed  her  again. 

“  What  makes  you  think  that  I  shall  be  great,  Corona  ?  No- 


SARACINESCA. 


281 


body  ever  thinks  I  am  even  clever.  My  father  would  laugh  at 
you,  and  say  it  is  quite  enough  greatness  to  be  born  a  Sara- 
cinesca.  What  makes  you  think  it  ? ” 

Corona  stood  up  beside  him  and  laid  her  delicate  hand  upon 
his  thick,  close-cut  black  hair,  and  gazed  into  his  eyes. 

“  I  know  it,”  she  said.  “  I  know  it,  because  I  love  you  so. 
A  man  like  you  must  be  great.  There  is  something  in  you 
that  nobody  guesses  but  I,  that  will  amaze  people  some  day — 
I  know  it.” 

“  I  wonder  if  you  could  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  I  wonder  if  it  is 
really  there  at  all  ?  ”  said  Giovanni. 

“It  is  ambition,”  said  Corona,  gravely.  “You  are  the  most 
ambitious  man  I  ever  knew,  and  nobody  has  found  it  out.” 

“  I  believe  it  is  true,  Corona,”  said  Giovanni,  turning  away 
and  leaning  upon  the  chimneypiece,  his  head  supported  on  one 
hand.  “I  believe  you  are  right.  I  am  ambitious:  if  I  only 
had  the  brains  that  some  men  have  I  would  do  great  things.” 

“You  are  wrong,  Giovanni.  It  is  neither  brains  nor  ambi¬ 
tion  nor  strength  that  you  lack — it  is  opportunity.” 

“  They  say  that  a  man  who  has  anything  in  him  creates 
opportunities  for  himself,”  answered  Giovanni,  rather  sadly. 
“  I  fear  it  is  because  I  really  have  nothing  in  me  that  I  can  do 
nothing.  It  sometimes  makes  me  very  unhappy  to  think  so. 
I  suppose  that  is  because  my  vanity  is  wounded.” 

“  Do  not  talk  like  that,”  said  Corona.  “  You  have  vanity, 
of  course,  but  it  is  of  the  large  kind,  and  I  call  it  ambition.  It 
is  not  only  because  I  love  you  better  than  any  man  was  ever 
loved  before  that  I  say  that.  It  is  that  I  know  it  instinctively. 
I  have  heard  you  say  that  these  are  unsettled  times.  Wait; 
your  opportunity  will  come,  as  it  came  often  to  your  forefathers 
in  other  centuries.” 

“  I  hardly  think  that  their  example  is  a  good  one,”  replied 
Giovanni,  with  a  smile. 

“They  generally  did  something  remarkable  in  remarkable 
times,”  said  Corona.  “  You  will  do  the  same.  Your  father, 
for  instance,  would  not.” 

“  He  is  far  more  clever  than  I,”  objected  Giovanni. 

“Clever!  It  passes  for  cleverness.  He  is  quick,  active,  a 
good  talker,  a  man  with  a  ready  wit  and  a  sharp  answer — kind- 
hearted  when  the  fancy  takes  him,  cruel  when  he  is  so  disposed 
— but  not  a  man  of  great  convictions  or  of  great  actions.  You 
are  very  different  from  him.” 

“  Will  you  draw  my  portrait,  Corona?”  asked  Giovanni. 

“  As  far  as  I  know  you.  You  are  a  man  quick  to  think  and 
slow  to  make  a  decision.  You  are  not  brilliant  in  conversation 
— you  see  I  do  not  flatter  you;  I  am  just.  You  have  the  very 
remarkable  quality  of  growing  cold  when  others  grow  hot,  and 


282 


SARACINESCA. 


of  keeping  the  full  use  of  your  faculties  in  any  situation. 
When  you  have  made  a  decision,  you  cannot  be  moved  from  it; 
hut  you  are  open  to  conviction  in  argument.  You  have  a  great 
repose  of  manner,  which  conceals  a  very  restless  brain.  All 
your  passions  are  very  strong.  You  never  forgive,  never  for¬ 
get,  and  scarcely  ever  repent.  Beneath  all,  you  have  an  un¬ 
tamable  ambition  which  has  not  yet  found  its  proper  field. 
Those  are  your  qualities — and  I  love  them  all,  and  you  more 
than  them  all.” 

Corona  finished  her  speech  by  throwing  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  breaking  into  a  happy  laugh  as  she  buried  her  face 
upon  his  shoulder.  No  one  who  saw  her  in  the  world  would 
have  believed  her  capable  of  those  sudden  and  violent  demon¬ 
strations — she  was  thought  so  very  cold. 

When  Giovanni  reached  home,  he  was  informed  that  his 
father  had  left  Rome  an  hour  earlier  by  the  train  for  Terni, 
leaving  word  that  he  had  gone  to  Aquila. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

In  those  days  the  railroad  did  not  extend  beyond  Terni  in  the 
direction  of  Aquila,  and  it  was  necessary  to  perform  the  journey 
of  forty  miles  between  those  towns  by  diligence.  It  was  late  in 
the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  before  the  cumbrous  coach  rolled 
up  to  the  door  of  the  Locanda  del  Sole  in  Aquila,  and  Prince 
Saracinesca  found  himself  at  his  destination.  The  red  evening 
sun  gilded  the  snow  of  the  Gran  Sasso  dTtalia,  the  huge  domed 
mountain  that  towers  above  the  city  of  Frederick.  The  city 
itself  had  long  been  in  the  shade,  and  the  spring  air  was  sharp 
and  biting.  Saracinesca  deposited  his  slender  luggage  with  the 
portly  landlord,  said  he  would  return  for  supper  in  half  an  hour, 
and  inquired  the  way  to  the  church  of  San  Bernardino  da  Siena. 
There  was  no  difficulty  in  finding  it,  at  the  end  of  the  Corso — 
the  inevitable  “  Corso  ”  of  every  Italian  town.  The  old  gentle¬ 
man  walked  briskly  along  the  broad,  clean  street,  and  reached  the 
door  of  the  church  just  as  the  sacristan  was  hoisting  the  heavy 
leathern  curtain,  preparatory  to  locking  up  for  the  night. 

“  Where  can  I  find  the  Padre  Curato  ?”  inquired  the  Prince. 
The  man  looked  at  him  but  made  no  answer,  and  proceeded  to 
close  the  doors  with  great  care.  He  was  an  old  man  in  a  shabby 
cassock,  with  four  days’  beard  on  his  face,  and  he  appeared  to 
have  taken  snuff  recently. 

“  Where  is  the  Curator  ?  ”  repeated  the  Prince,  plucking  him 
by  the  sleeve.  But  the  man  shook  his  head,  and  began  turning 
the  ponderous  key  in  the  lock.  Two  little  ragged  boys  were 
playing  a  game  upon  the  church  steps,  piling  five  chestnuts  in 
a  heap  and  then  knocking  them  down  with  a  small  stone. 


SARACINESCA. 


283 


One  of  them  having  upset  the  heap,  desisted  and  came  near 
the  Prince. 

“  That  one  is  deaf/'  he  said,  pointing  to  the  sacristan.  Then 
running  behind  him  he  stood  on  tiptoe  and  screamed  in  his  ear 
— “  Brutta  bestia  !  " 

The  sacristan  did  not  hear,  but  caught  sight  of  the  urchin  and 
made  a  lunge  at  him.  He  missed  him,  however,  and  nearly  fell 
over. 

“ What  education! — che  educazione!”  cried  the  old  man, 
angrily. 

Meanwhile  the  little  boy  took  refuge  behind  Saracinesca,  and 
pulling  his  coat  asked  for  a  soldo.  The  sacristan  calmly  with¬ 
drew  the  key  from  the  lock,  and  went  away  without  vouchsafing 
a  look  to  the  Prince. 

“  He  is  deaf/'  screamed  the  little  hoy,  who  was  now  joined  by 
his  companion,  and  both  in  great  excitement  danced  round  the 
fine  gentleman. 

“ Give  me  a  soldo”  they  yelled  together. 

“Show  me  the  house  of  the  Padre  Curato,"  answered  the 
Prince,  “  then  I  will  give  you  each  a  soldo.  Lesti  !  Quick ! " 

Whereupon  both  the  boys  began  turning  cart-wheels  on  their 
feet  and  hands  with  marvellous  dexterity.  At  last  they  subsided 
into  a  natural  position,  and  led  the  way  to  the  curate's  house, 
not  twenty  yards  from  the  church,  in  a  narrow  alley.  The 
Prince  pulled  the  bell  by  the  long  chain  which  hung  beside  the 
open  street  door,  and  gave  the  boys  the  promised  coppers.  They 
did  not  leave  him,  however,  but  stood  by  to  see  what  would 
happen.  An  old  woman  looked  out  of  an  upper  window,  and 
after  surveying  the  Prince  with  care,  called  down  to  him — 

“  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

“  Is  the  Padre  Curato  at  home  ?  " 

“Of  course  he  is  at  home,"  screamed  the  old  woman.  “At 
this  hour! "  she  added,  contemptuously. 

“  Ebbene — can  I  see  him  ?  " 

“  What !  is  the  door  shut  ?  "  returned  the  hag. 

«  No." 

“  Then  why  don't  you  come  up  without  asking  ?"  The  old 
woman's  head  disappeared,  and  the  window  was  shut  with  a 
clattering  noise. 

“  She  is  a  woman  without  education,"  remarked  one  of  the 
ragged  boys,  making  a  face  towards  the  closed  window. 

The  Prince  entered  the  door  and  stumbled  up  the  dark  stairs, 
and  after  some  further  palaver  obtained  admittance  to  the 
curate's  lodging.  The  curate  sat  in  a  room  which  appeared  to 
serve  as  dining-room,  living-room,  and  study.  A  small  table  was 
spread  with  a  clean  cloth,  upon  which  were  arranged  a  plate,  a 
loaf  of  bread,  a  battered  spoon,  a  knife,  and  a  small  measure  of 


284 


SARACINESCA. 


thin-looking  wine.  A  brass  lamp  with  three  wicks,  one  of  which 
only  was  burning,  shed  a  feeble  light  through  the  poor  apart¬ 
ment.  Against  the  wall  stood  a  rough  table  with  an  inkstand  and 
three  or  four  mouldy  books.  Above  this  hung  a  little  black  cross 
bearing  a  brass  Christ,  and  above  this  again  a  coloured  print  of 
San  Bernardino  of  Siena.  The  walls  were  whitewashed,  and 
perfectly  clean, — as  indeed  was  everything  else  in  the  room, — 
and  there  was  a  sweet  smell  of  flowers  from  a  huge  pot  of  pinks 
which  had  been  taken  in  for  the  night,  and  stood  upon  the 
stone  sill  within  the  closed  window. 

The  curate  was  a  tall  old  man,  with  a  singularly  gentle  face 
and  soft  brown  eyes.  He  wore  a  threadbare  cassock,  carefully 
brushed;  and  from  beneath  his  three-cornered  black  cap  his 
thin  hair  hung  in  a  straight  grey  fringe.  As  the  Prince  entered 
the  room,  the  old  woman  called  over  his  shoulder  to  the  priest 
an  uncertain  formula  of  introduction. 

“Don  Paolo,  c’e  uno — there  is  one.”  Then  she  retired, 
grumbling  audibly. 

The  priest  removed  his  cap,  and  bowing  politely,  offered  one 
of  the  two  chairs  to  his  visitor.  With  an  apology,  he  replaced 
his  cap  upon  his  head,  and  seated  himself  opposite  the  Prince. 
There  was  much  courteous  simplicity  in  his  manner. 

“  In  what  way  can  I  serve  you.  Signore  ?”  he  asked. 

“  These  papers,”  answered  the  Prince,  drawing  the  famous 
envelope  from  his  breast-pocket,  “  are  copies  of  certain  docu¬ 
ments  in  your  keeping,  relating  to  the  supposed  marriage  of  one 
Giovanni  Saracinesca.  AVith  your  very  kind  permission,  I  de¬ 
sire  to  see  the  originals.” 

The  old  curate  bowed,  as  though  giving  his  assent,  and  looked 
steadily  at  his  visitor  for  a  moment  before  he  answered. 

“  There  is  nothing  simpler,  my  good  sir.  You  will  pardon  me, 
however,  if  I  venture  to  inquire  your  name,  and  to  ask  you  for 
what  purpose  you  desire  to  consult  the  documents  ?  ” 

“  I  am  Leone  Saracinesca  of  Rome - ” 

The  priest  started  uneasily. 

“A  relation  of  Giovanni  Saracinesca ?”  he  inquired.  Then 
he  added  immediately,  “  Will  you  kindly  excuse  me  for  one  mo¬ 
ment  ?  ”  and  left  the  room  abruptly.  The  Prince  was  consider¬ 
ably  astonished,  but  he  held  his  papers  firmly  in  his  hand,  and 
did  not  move  from  his  seat.  The  curate  returned  in  a  few 
seconds,  bringing  with  him  a  little  painted  porcelain  basket, 
much  chipped  and  the  worse  for  age,  and  which  contained  a 
collection  of  visiting-cards.  There  were  not  more  than  a  score 
of  them,  turning  brown  with  accumulated  dust.  The  priest 
found  one  which  was  rather  newer  than  the  rest,  and  after  care¬ 
fully  adjusting  a  pair  of  huge  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  he  went 
over  to  the  lamp  and  examined  it. 


SARACINESCA. 


285 


“ ‘  II  Conte  del  Ferice,’  ”  he  read  slowly.  “  Do  you  happen 
to  know  that  gentleman,  my  good  sir  ? ”  he  inquired,  turning 
to  the  Prince,  and  looking  keenly  at  him  over  his  glasses. 

“  Certainly,”  answered  Saracinesca,  beginning  to  understand 
the  situation.  “  I  know  him  very  well.” 

“Ah,  that  is  good!”  said  the  priest.  “He  was  here  two 
years  ago,  and  had  those  same  entries  concerning  Giovanni 
Saracinesca  copied.  Probably — certainly,  indeed — the  papers 
you  have  there  are  the  very  ones  he  took  away  with  him. 
When  he  came  to  see  me  about  it,  he  gave  me  this  card.” 

“I  wonder  he  did,”  answered  Saracinesca. 

“  Indeed,”  replied  the  curate,  after  a  moment’s  thought,  “  I 
remember  that  he  came  the  next  day — yes — and  asked  to  have 
his  card  returned.  But  I  could  not  find  it  for  him.  There 
was  a  hole  in  one  of  my  pockets — it  had  slipped  down.  Car- 
mela,  my  old  servant,  found  it  a  day  or  two  later  in  the  lining 
of  my  cassock.  I  thought  it  strange  that  he  should  have  asked 
for  it.” 

“  It  was  very  natural.  He  wished  you  to  forget  his  existence.” 

“  He  asked  me  many  questions  about  Giovanni,”  said  the 
priest,  “  but  I  could  not  answer  him  at  that  time.” 

“  You  could  answer  now  ?  ”  inquired  the  Prince,  eagerly. 

“Excuse  me,  my  good  sir;  what  relation  are  you  to  Gio¬ 
vanni  ?  You  say  you  are  from  Rome  ?” 

“  Let  us  understand  each  other,  Signor  Curato,”  said  Sara¬ 
cinesca.  “  I  see  I  had  better  explain  the  position.  I  am  Leone 
Saracinesca,  the  prince  of  that  name,  and  the  head  of  the 
family.”  The  priest  bowed  respectfully  at  this  intelligence. 
“  My  only  son  lives  with  me  in  Rome — he  is  now  there — and 
his  name  is  Giovanni  Saracinesca.  He  is  engaged  to  be  mar¬ 
ried.  When  the  engagement  became  known,  an  enemy  of  the 
family  attempted  to  prove,  by  means  of  these  papers,  that  he 
was  married  already  to  a  certain  Felice  Baldi.  Now  I  wish  to 
know  who  this  Giovanni  Saracinesca  is,  where  he  is,  and  how 
he  comes  to  have  my  son’s  name.  I  wish  a  certificate  or  some 
proof  that  he  is  not  my  son, — that  he  is  alive,  or  that  he  is 
dead  and  buried.” 

The  old  priest  burst  into  a  genial  laugh,  and  rubbed  his 
hands  together  in  delight. 

“  My  dear  sir — your  Excellency,  I  mean — I  baptised  Felice 
Baldi’s  second  baby  a  fortnight  ago!  There  is  nothing  sim¬ 
pler - ” 

“  I  knew  it!  ”  cried  the  Prince,  springing  from  his  chair  in 
great  excitement;  “  I  knew  it!  Where  is  that  baby  ?  Send  and 
get  the  baby  at  once — the  mother — the  father — everybody!” 

“  Subito  !  At  once — or  come  with  me.  I  will  show  you  the 
whole  family  together,”  said  the  curate,  in  innocent  delight. 


2S6 


SARACINESCA. 


“  Splendid  children  they  are,  too.  Carmel  a,  my  cloak — 
slrigati,  be  quick!  ” 

“  One  moment,”  objected  Saracinesca,  as  though  suddenly 
recollecting  something.  u'One  moment,  Signor  Curato;  who 
goes  slowly  goes  safely.  Where  does  this  man  come  from,  and 
how  does  he  come  by  his  name  ?  I  would  like  to  know  some¬ 
thing  about  him  before  I  see  him.” 

“True,”  answered  the  priest,  resuming  his  seat.  “I  had 
forgotten.  Well,  it  is  not  a  long  story.  Giovanni  Saracinesca 
is  from  Naples.  You  know  there  was  once  a  branch  of  your 
family  in  the  Neapolitan  kingdom — at  least  so  Giovanni  says, 
and  he  is  an  honest  fellow.  Their  title  was  Marchese  di  San 
Giacinto;  and  if  Giovanni  liked  to  claim  it,  he  has  a  right  to 
the  title  still.” 

“But  those  Saracinesca  were  extinct  fifty  years  ago,”  ob¬ 
jected  the  Prince,  who  knew  his  family  history  very  well. 

“  Giovanni  says  they  were  not.  They  were  believed  to  be. 
The  last  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto  fought  under  Napoleon. 
He  lost  all  he  possessed — lands,  money,  everything — by  confis¬ 
cation,  when  Ferdinand  was  restored  in  1815.  He  was  a  rough 
man ;  he  dropped  his  title,  married  a  peasant’s  only  daughter, 
became  a  peasant  himself,  and  died  obscurely  in  a  village  near 
Salerno.  He  left  a  son  who  worked  on  the  farm  and  inherited 
it  from  his  mother,  married  a  woman  in  the  village  of  some 
education,  and  died  of  the  cholera,  leaving  his  son,  the  present 
Giovanni  Saracinesca.  This  Giovanni  received  a  better  educa¬ 
tion  than  his  father  had  before  him,  improved  his  farm,  began 
to  sell  wine  and  oil  for  exportation,  travelled  as  far  as  Aquila, 
and  met  Felice  Baldi,  the  daughter  of  a  man  of  some  wealth, 
who  has  since  established  an  inn  here.  Giovanni  loved  her.  I 
married  them.  He  went  back  to  Naples,  sold  his  farm  for  a 
good  price  last  year,  and  returned  to  Aquila.  He  manages  his 
father-in-law’s  inn,  which  is  the  second  largest  here,  and  drives 
a  good  business,  having  put  his  own  capital  into  the  enterprise. 
They  have  two  children,  the  second  one  of  which  was  born 
three  weeks  ago,  and  they  are  perfectly  happy.” 

Saracinesca  looked  thoughtfully  at  Don  Paolo,  the  old  curate. 

“  Has  this  man  any  papers  to  prove  the  truth  of  this  very 
singular  story  ?  ”  he  inquired  at  last. 

“  Altro  !  That  was  all  his  grandfather  left — a  heap  of  parch¬ 
ments.  They  seem  to  be  in  order — he  showed  them  to  me 
when  I  married  him.” 

“  Why  does  he  make  no  claim  to  have  the  attainder  of  his 
grandfather  reversed  ?  ” 

The  curate  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  spread  out  the  palms 
of  his  hands,  smiling  incredulously. 

“  The  lands,  he  says,  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  certain 


SARACINESCA. 


287 


patriots.  There  is  no  chance  of  getting  them  back.  It  is  of 
little  use  to  he  a  Marchese  without  property.  What  he  pos¬ 
sesses  is  a  modest  competence;  it  is  wealth,  even,  in  his  present 
position.  For  a  nobleman  it  would  be  nothing.  Besides,  he  is 
half  a  peasant  by  blood  and  tradition.” 

“  He  is  not  the  only  nobleman  in  that  position,”  laughed 
Saracinesca.  “  But  are  you  aware - ” 

He  stopped  short.  He  was  going  to  say  that  if  he  himself 
and  his  son  both  died,  the  innkeeper  of  Aquila  would  become 
Prince  Saracinesca.  The  idea  shocked  him,  and  he  kept  it  to 
himself. 

“  After  all,”  he  continued,  “  the  man  is  of  my  blood  by  direct 
descent.  I  would  like  to  see  him.” 

“  Nothing  easier.  If  you  will  come  with  me,  I  will  present 
him  to  your  Excellency,”  said  the  priest.  “  Do  you  still  wish 
to  see  the  documents  ?  ” 

“  It  is  useless.  The  mystery  is  solved.  Let  us  go  and  see 
this  new-found  relation  of  mine.” 

Don  Paolo  wrapped  his  cloak  around  him,  and  ushering  his 
guest  from  the  room,  led  the  way  down-stairs.  He  carried  a 
bit  of  wax  taper,  which  he  held  low  to  the  steps,  frequently 
stopping  and  warning  the  Prince  to  be  careful.  It  was  night 
when  they  went  out.  The  air  was  sharp  and  cold,  and  Sara¬ 
cinesca  buttoned  his  greatcoat  to  his  throat  as  he  strode  by  the 
side  of  the  old  priest.  The  two  walked  on  in  silence  for  ten 
minutes,  keeping  straight  down  the  Corso  Vittorio  Emmanuele. 
At  last  the  curate  stopped  before  a  clean,  new  house,  from  the 
windows  of  which  the  bright  light  streamed  into  the  street. 
Don  Paolo  motioned  to  the  Prince  to  enter,  and  followed  him 
in.  A  man  in  a  white  apron,  with  his  arms  full  of  plates,  who 
was  probably  servant,  butler,  boots,  and  factotum  to  the  estab¬ 
lishment,  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  which  was  to  the  left 
of  the  entrance,  and  which,  to  judge  by  the  noise,  seemed  to  be 
full  of  people.  He  looked  at  the  curate,  and  then  at  the  Prince. 

“  Sorry  to  disappoint  you,  Don  Paolo  mio”  he  said,  suppos¬ 
ing  the  priest  had  brought  a  customer — “ very  sorry;  there  is 
not  a  bed  in  the  house.” 

“  That  is  no  matter,  Giacchino,”  answered  the  curate.  "We 
want  to  see  Sor  Giovanni  for  a  moment.”  The  man  disap¬ 
peared,  and  a  moment  later  Sor  Giovanni  himself  came  down 
the  passage. 

“  Favorisca,  dear  Don  Paolo,  come  in.”  And  he  bowed  to 
the  Prince  as  he  opened  the  door  which  led  into  a  small  sitting- 
room  reserved  for  the  innkeeper’s  family. 

When  they  had  entered,  Saracinesca  looked  at  his  son’s 
namesake.  He  saw  before  him  a  man  whose  face  and  figure  he 
long  remembered  with  an  instinctive  dislike.  Giovanni  the 


288 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


innkeeper  was  of  a  powerful  build.  Two  generations  of  peas¬ 
ant  blood  had  given  renewed  strength  to  the  old  race.  He  was 
large,  with  large  bones,  vast  breadth  of  shoulder,  and  massive 
joints;  lean  withal,  and  brown  of  face,  his  high  cheek-bones 
making  his  cheeks  look  hollow;  clean  shaved,  his  hair  straight 
and  black  and  neatly  combed;  piercing  black  eyes  .near  to¬ 
gether,  the  heavy  eyebrows  joining  together  in  the  midst  of  his 
forehead;  thin  and  cruel  lips,  now  parted  in  a  smile  and  show¬ 
ing  a  formidable  set  of  short,  white,  even  teeth;  a  prominent 
square  jaw,  and  a  broad,  strong  nose,  rather  unnaturally  pointed, 
— altogether  a  striking  face,  one  that  would  be  noticed  in  a 
crowd  for  its  strength,  but  strangely  cunning  in  expression,  and 
not  without  ferocity.  Years  afterwards  Saracinesca  remem¬ 
bered  his  first  meeting  with  Giovanni  the  innkeeper,  and  did 
not  wonder  that  his  first  impulse  had  been  to  dislike  the  man. 
At  present,  however,  he  looked  at  him  with  considerable  curi¬ 
osity,  and  if  he  disliked  him  at  first  sight,  he  told  himself  that 
it  was  beneath  him  to  show  antipathy  for  an  innkeeper. 

“  Sor  Giovanni,”  said  the  curate,  “this  gentleman  is  desirous 
of  making  your  acquaintance.” 

Giovanni,  whose  manners  were  above  his  station,  bowed 
politely,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  his  visitor. 

“  Signor  Saracinesca,”  said  the  Prince,  “  I  am  Leone  Sara¬ 
cinesca  of  Rome.  I  have  just  heard  of  your  existence.  We 
have  long  believed  your  family  to  be  extinct — I  am  delighted 
to  find  it  still  represented,  and  by  one  who  seems  likely  to  per¬ 
petuate  the  name.” 

The  innkeeper  fixed  his  piercing  eyes  on  the  speaker’s  face, 
and  looked  long  before  he  answered. 

“  So  you  are  Prince  Saracinesca,”  he  said,  gravely. 

“  And  you  are  the  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto,”  said  the  Prince, 
in  the  same  tone,  holding  out  his  hand  frankly. 

“  Pardon  me, — I  am  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  the  innkeeper  of 
Aquila,”  returned  the  other.  But  he  took  the  Prince’s  hand. 
Then  they  all  sat  down. 

“  As  you  please,”  said  the  Prince.  “  The  title  is  none  the 
less  yours.  If  you  had  signed  yourself  with  it  when  you  mar¬ 
ried,  you  would  have  saved  me  a  vast  deal  of  trouble;  but  on 
the  other  hand,  I  should  not  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  meet 
you.” 

“  I  do  not  understand,”  said  Giovanni. 

The  Prince  told  his  story  in  as  few  words  as  possible. 

“  Amazing !  extraordinary !  what  a  chance !  ”  ejaculated  the 
curate,  nodding  his  old  head  from  time  to  time  while  the 
Prince  spoke,  as  though  he  had  not  heard  it  all  before.  The 
innkeeper  said  nothing  until  old  Saracinesca  had  finished. 

“  I  see  how  it  was  managed,”  he  said  at  last.  “  When  that 


SARACIXESCA. 


289 


gentleman  was  making  inquiries,  I  was  away.  I  had  taken  my 
wife  back  to  Salerno,  and  my  wife’s  father  had  not  yet  estab¬ 
lished  himself  in  Aquila.  Signor  Del — what  is  his  name  ?” 

“  Del  Ferice.” 

“  Del  Ferice,  exactly.  He  thought  we  had  disappeared,  and 
were  not  likely  to  come  back.  Or  else  he  is  a  fool.” 

“  He  is  not  a  fool,”  said  Saracinesca.  “  He  thought  he  was 
safe.  It  is  all  very  clear  now.  Well,  Signor  Marchese,  or  Sig¬ 
nor  Saracinesca,  I  am  very  glad  to  have  made  your  acquaint¬ 
ance.  You  have  cleared  up  a  very  important  question  by  re¬ 
turning  to  Aquila.  It  will  always  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure 
to  serve  you  in  any  way  I  can.” 

“  A  thousand  thanks.  Anything  I  can  do  for  you  during 
your  stay - ” 

“  You  are  very  kind.  I  will  hire  horses  and  return  to  Terni 
to-night.  My  business  in  Rome  is  urgent.  There  is  some  sus¬ 
pense  there  in  my  absence.” 

“  You  will  drink  a  glass  before  going?”  asked  Giovanni; 
and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  strode  from  the  room. 

“And  what  does  your  Excellency  think  of  your  relation  ?” 
asked  the  curate,  when  he  was  alone  with  the  Prince. 

“  A  terrible-looking  fellow !  But - ”  The  Prince  made  a 

face  and  a  gesture  indicating  a  question  in  regard  to  the  inn¬ 
keeper’s  character. 

“  Oh,  do  not  be  afraid,”  answered  the  priest.  “  He  is  the 
most  honest  man  alive.” 

“  Of  course,”  returned  the  Prince,  politely,  “  you  have  had 
many  occasions  of  ascertaining  that.” 

Giovanni,  the  innkeeper,  returned  with  a  bottle  of  wine  and 
three  glasses,  which  he  placed  upon  the  table,  and  proceeded  to 

fill. 

“  By  the  bye,”  said  the  Prince,  “  in  the  excitement  I  forgot 
to  inquire  for  your  Signora.  She  is  well,  I  hope  ?  ” 

“  Thank  you — she  is  very  well,”  replied  Giovanni,  shortly. 

“  A  boy,  I  have  no  doubt  ?  ” 

“  A  splendid  boy,”  answered  the  curate.  “  Sor  Giovanni  has 
a  little  girl,  too.  He  is  a  very  happy  man.” 

“  Your  health,”  said  the  innkeeper,  holding  up  his  glass  to 
the  light. 

“  And  yours,”  returned  the  Prince. 

“  And  of  all  the  Saracinesca  family,”  said  the  curate,  sipping 
his  wine  slowly.  He  rarely  got  a  glass  of  old  Lacrima,  and  he 
enjoyed  it  thoroughly. 

“  And  now,”  said  the  Prince,  “  I  must  be  off.  Many  thanks 
for  your  hospitality.  I  shall  always  remember  with  pleasure 
the  day  when  I  met  an  unknown  relation.” 

“  The  Albergo  di  Napoli  will  not  forget  that  Prince  Saraci- 


290 


SARACINESCA. 


nesca  has  been  its  guest,”  replied  Giovanni  politely,  a  smile 
upon  his  thin  lips.  He  shook  hands  with  both  his  guests,  and 
ushered  them  out  to  the  door  with  a  courteous  bow.  Before 
they  had  gone  twenty  yards  in  the  street,  the  Prince  looked 
back  and  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  Giovanni’s  towering  figure, 
standing  upon  the  steps  with  the  bright  light  falling  upon  it 
from  within.  He  remembered  that  impression  long. 

At  the  door  of  his  own  inn  he  took  leave  of  the  good  curate 
with  many  expressions  of  thanks,  and  with  many  invitations  to 
the  Palazzo  Saracinesca,  in  case  the  old  man  ever  visited  Rome. 

“  I  have  never  seen  Rome,  your  Excellency,”  answered  the 
priest,  rather  sadly.  “  I  am  an  old  man — I  shall  never  see  it 
now.” 

So  they  parted,  and  the  Prince  had  a  solitary  supper  of 
pigeons  and  salad  in  the  great  dusky  hall  of  the  Locanda  del 
Sole,  while  his  horses  were  being  got  ready  for  the  long  night- 
journey. 

The  meeting  and  the  whole  clearing  up  of  the  curious  diffi¬ 
culty  had  produced  a  profound  impression  upon  the  old  Prince. 
He  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  but  that  the  story  of  the  curate 
was  perfectly  accurate.  It  was  all  so  very  probable,  too.  In 
the  wild  times  between  1806  and  1815  the  last  of  the  Neapolitan 
branch  of  the  Saracinesca  had  disappeared,  and  the  rich  and 
powerful  Roman  princes  of  the  name  had  been  quite  willing  to 
believe  the  Marchesi  di  San  Giacinto  extinct.  They  had  not 
even  troubled  themselves  to  claim  the  title,  for  they  possessed 
more  than  fifty  of  their  own,  and  there  was  no  chance  of  recov¬ 
ering  the  San  Giacinto  estate,  already  mortgaged,  and  more 
than  half  squandered  at  the  time  of  the  confiscation.  That  the 
rough  soldier  of  fortune  should  have  hidden  himself  in  his  na¬ 
tive  country  after  the  return  of  Ferdinand,  his  lawful  king, 
against  whom  he  had  fought,  was  natural  enough;  as  it  was 
also  natural  that,  with  his  rough  nature,  he  should  accommo¬ 
date  himself  to  a  peasant’s  life,  and  marry  a  peasant’s  only 
daughter,  with  her  broad  acres  of  orange  and  olive  and  vine 
land ;  for  peasants  in  the  far  south  were  often  rich,  and  their 
daughters  were  generally  beautiful — a  very  different  race  from 
the  starved  tenants  of  the  Roman  Campagna. 

The  Prince  decided  that  the  story  was  perfectly  true,  and  he 
reflected  somewhat  bitterly  that  unless  his  son  had  heirs  after 
him,  this  herculean  innkeeper  of  Aquila  was  the  lawful  suc¬ 
cessor  to  his  own  title,  and  to  all  the  Saracinesca  lands.  He 
determined  that  Giovanni’s  marriage  should  not  be  delayed 
another  day,  and  with  his  usual  impetuosity  he  hastened  back 
to  Rome,  hardly  remembering  that  he  had  spent  the  previous 
night  and  all  that  day  upon  the  road,  and  that  he  had  another 
twenty-four  hours  of  travel  before  him. 


SARACINESCA. 


291 


At  dawn  his  carriage  stopped  at  a  little  town  not  far  from 
the  papal  frontier.  Just  as  the  vehicle  was  starting,  a  large 
man,  muffled  in  a  huge  cloak,  from  the  folds  of  which  pro¬ 
truded  the  long  brown  barrel  of  a  rifle,  put  his  head  into  the 
window.  The  Prince  started  and  grasped  his  revolver,  which 
lay  beside  him  on  the  seat. 

“  Good  morning,  Prince,”  said  the  man.  “  I  hope  you  have 
slept  well.” 

“  Sor  Giovanni!”  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman.  “  Where 
did  you  drop  from  ?  ” 

“  The  roads  are  not  very  safe,”  returned  the  innkeeper.  “  So 
I  thought  it  best  to  accompany  you.  Good-bye — buon  viaggio  !  ” 

Before  the  Prince  could  answer,  the  carriage  rolled  off,  the 
horses  springing  forward  at  a  gallop.  Saracinesca  put  his  head 
out  of  the  window,  but  his  namesake  had  disappeared,  and  he 
rolled  on  towards  Terni,  wondering  at  the  innkeeper’s  anxiety 
for  his  safety. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Even  old  Saracinesca’s  iron  strength  was  in  need  of  rest 
when,  at  the  end  of  forty-eight  hours,  he  again  entered  his 
son’s  rooms,  and  threw  himself  upon  the  great  divan. 

“  How  is  Corona?”  was  his  first  question. 

“  She  is  very  anxious  about  you,”  returned  Giovanni,  who 
was  himself  considerably  disturbed. 

“  We  will  go  and  set  her  mind  at  rest  as  soon  as  I  have  had 
something  to  eat,”  said  his  father. 

“  It  is  all  right,  then  ?  It  was  just  as  I  said — a  namesake  ?  ” 

“  Precisely.  Only  the  namesake  happens  to  be  a  cousin — 
the  last  of  the  San  Giacinto,  who  keeps  an  inn  in  Aquila.  I 
saw  him,  and  shook  hands  with  him.” 

“Impossible!”  exclaimed  Giovanni.  “They  are  all  ex¬ 
tinct - ” 

“  There  has  been  a  resurrection,”  returned  the  Prince.  He 
told  the  whole  story  of  his  journey,  graphically  and  quickly. 

“  That  is  a  very  extraordinary  tale,”  remarked  Giovanni, 
thoughtfully.  “  So,  if  I  die  without  children  the  innkeeper 
will  be  prince.” 

“  Precisely.  And  now,  Giovanni,  you  must  be  married  next 
week.” 

“  As  soon  as  you  please — to-morrow  if  you  like.” 

“  What  shall  we  do  with  Del  Ferice  ?  ”  asked  the  old  Prince. 

“  Ask  him  to  the  wedding,”  answered  Giovanni,  magnani¬ 
mously. 

“  The  wedding  will  have  to  be  a  very  quiet  one,  I  suppose,”  re¬ 
marked  his  father,  thoughtfully.  “  The  year  is  hardly  over - ” 


292 


SARACINESCA. 


“  The  more  quiet  the  better,  provided  it  is  done  quickly.  Of 
course  we  must  consult  Corona  at  once.” 

“  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  fix  the  wedding-day  without 
consulting  her  ?  ”  asked  the  old  man.  “  For  heaven's  sake 
order  dinner,  and  let  us  be  quick  about  it.” 

The  Prince  was  evidently  in  a  hurry,  and  moreover,  he  was 
tired  and  very  hungry.  An  hour  later,  as  both  the  men  sat 
over  the  coffee  in  the  dining-room,  his  mood  was  mellower.  A 
dinner  at  home  has  a  wonderful  effect  upon  the  temper  of  a 
man  who  has  travelled  and  fared  badly  for  eight-and-forty 
hours. 

“  Giovannino,”  said  old  Saracinesca,  “  have  you  any  idea 
what  the  Cardinal  thinks  of  your  marriage  ?  ” 

“  No;  and  I  do  not  care,”  answered  the  younger  man.  “  He 
once  advised  me  not  to  marry  Donna  Tullia.  He  has  not  seen 
me  often  since  then.” 

“  I  have  an  idea  that  it  will  please  him  immensely,”  said 
the  Prince. 

“  It  would  be  very  much  the  same  if  it  displeased  him.” 

“  Very  much  the  same.  Have  you  seen  Corona  to-day  ?" 

“  Yes — of  course,”  answered  Giovanni. 

“  What  is  the  use  of  my  going  with  you  this  evening  ?  ” 
asked  his  father,  suddenly.  “  I  should  think  you  could  man¬ 
age  your  own  affairs  without  my  help.” 

“  I  thought  that  as  you  have  taken  so  much  trouble,  you 
would  enjoy  telling  her  the  story  yourself.” 

“Do  you  think  I  am  a  vain  fool,  sir,  to  be  amused  by  a 
woman's  praise  ?  Nonsense!  Go  yourself.” 

“By  all  means,”  answered  Giovanni.  He  was  used  to  his 
father's  habit  of  being  quarrelsome  over  trifles,  and  he  was 
much  too  happy  to  take  any  notice  of  it  now. 

“  You  are  tired,”  he  continued.  “  I  am  sure  you  have  a 
right  to  be.  You  must  want  to  go  to  bed.” 

“To  bed  indeed!”  growled  the  old  man.  “Tired!  You 
think  I  am  good  for  nothing;  I  know  you  do.  You  look  upon 
me  as  a  doting  old  cripple.  I  tell  you,  boy,  I  can - ■" 

“For  heaven's  sake,  padre  mio ,  do  precisely  as  you  are 
inclined.  I  never  said - ” 

“  Never  said  what  ?  Why  are  you  always  quarrelling  with 
me?”  roared  his  father,  who  had  not  lost  his  temper  for  two 
days,  and  missed  his  favourite  exercise. 

“  What  day  shall  we  fix  upon?”  asked  Giovanni,  unmoved. 

“  Day  !  Any  day.  What  do  I  care  ?  Oh  ! — well,  since  you 
speak  of  it,  you  might  say  a  week  from  Sunday.  To-day  is 
Friday.  But  I  do  not  care  in  the  least.” 

“  Very  well — if  Corona  can  get  ready.” 

“  She  shall  be  ready — she  must  be  ready !  ”  answered  the  old 


SARACINESCA. 


293 


gentleman,  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  “  Why  should  she  not  be 
ready,  I  would  like  to  know  ?  ” 

“  No  reason  whatever,”  said  Giovanni,  with  unusual  mildness. 

“  Of  course  not.  There  is  never  any  reason  in  anything  you 
say,  you  unreasonable  boy.” 

“  Never,  of  course.”  Giovanni  rose  to  go,  biting  his  lips  to 
keep  down  a  laugh. 

“  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  always  agreeing  with  me, 
you  impertinent  scapegrace?  And  you  are  laughing,  too — 
laughing  at  me,  sir,  as  I  live  !  Upon  my  word  !  ” 

Giovanni  turned  his  back  and  lighted  a  cigar.  Then,  with¬ 
out  looking  round,  he  walked  towards  the  door. 

“  Giovannino,”  called  the  Prince. 


“  Well?” 

“  I  feel  better  now.  I  wanted  to  abuse  somebody.  Look 
here — wait  a  moment.”  He  rose  quickly,  and  left  the  room. 

Giovanni  sat  down  and  smoked  "rather  impatiently,  looking 
at  his  watch  from  time  to  time.  In  five  minutes  his  father 
returned,  bringing  in  his  hand  an  old  red  morocco  case. 

“  Give  it  to  her  with  my  compliments,  my  boy,”  he  said. 
“  They  are  some  of  your  mother’s  diamonds — just  a  few  of 
them.  She  shall  have  the  rest  on  the  wedding-day.” 

“  Thank  you,”  said  Giovanni,  and  pressed  his  father’s  hand. 

“  And  give  her  my  love,  and  say  I  will  call  to-morrow  at  two 
o’clock,”  added  the  Prince,  now  perfectly  serene. 

With  the  diamonds  under  his  arm,  Giovanni  went  out.  The 
sky  was  clear  and  frosty,  and  the  stars  shone  brightly,  high  up 
between  the  tall  houses  of  the  narrow  street.  Giovanni  had 
not  ordered  a  carriage,  and  seeing  how  fine  the  night  was,  he 
decided  to  walk  to  his  destination.  It  was  not  eight  o’clock, 
and  Corona  would  have  scarcely  finished  dinner  at  that  hour. 
He  walked  slowly.  As  he  emerged  into  the  Piazza  di  Venezia 
some  one  overtook  him. 

“  Good  evening,  Prince.”  Giovanni  turned,  and  recognised 
Anastase  Gouache,  the  Zouave. 

“Ah,  Gouache — how  are  you  ?” 

“  I  am  going  to  pay  you  a  visit,”  answered  the  Frenchman. 

“  I  am  very  sorry — I  have  just  left  home,”  returned  Giovanni, 
in  some  surprise. 

“  Not  at  your  house,”  continued  Anastase.  “  My  company 
is  ordered  to  the  mountains.  We  leave  to-morrow  morning  for 
Subiaco,  and  some  of  us  are  to  be  quartered  at  Saracinesca.” 

“  I  hope  you  will  be  among  the  number,”  said  Giovanni.  “  I 
shall  probably  be  married  next  week,  and  the  Duchessa  wishes 
to  go  at  once  to  the  mountains.  We  shall  be  delighted  to  see 
you.” 

“Thank  you  very  much.  I  will  not  fail  to  do  myself  the 


294 


SARACINESCA. 


honour.  My  homage  to  Madame  la  Duchesse.  I  must  turn 
here.  Good"  night.” 

“  Au  revoir,”  said  Giovanni,  and  went  on  his  way. 

He  found  Corona  in  an  inner  sitting-room,  reading  beside  a 
great  wood-fire.  There  were  soft  shades  of  lilac  mingled  with 
the  black  of  her  dress.  The  year  of  mourning  was  past,  and  so 
soon  as  she  could  she  modified  her  widow’s  weeds  into  some¬ 
thing  less  solemnly  black.  It  was  impossible  to  wear  funeral 
robes  on  the  eve  of  her  second  marriage;  and  the  world  had 
declared  that  she  had  shown  an  extraordinary  degree  of  virtue 
in  mourning  so  long  for  a  death  which  every  one  considered  so 
highly  appropriate.  Corona,  however,  felt  differently.  To  her, 
her  dead  husband  and  the  man  she  now  so  wholly  loved  be¬ 
longed  to  two  totally  distinct  classes  of  men.  Her  love,  her 
marriage  with  Giovanni,  seemed  so  natural  a  consequence  of 
her  being  left  alone — so  absolutely  removed  from  her  former 
life — that,  on  the  eve  of  her  wedding,  she  could  almost  wish 
that  poor  old  Astrardente  were  alive  to  look  as  her  friend  upon 
her  new-found  happiness. 

She  welcomed  Giovanni  with  a  bright  smile.  She  had  not 
expected  him  that  evening,  for  he  had  been  with  her  all  the 
afternoon.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  came  quickly  to  meet 
him.  She  almost  unconsciously  took  the  morocco  case  from 
his  hands,  not  looking  at  it,  and  hardly  noticing  what  she  did. 

“  My  father  has  come  back.  It  is  all  settled  !  ”  cried  Gio¬ 
vanni. 

“  So  soon  !  He  must  have  flown  !  ”  said  she,  making  him  sit 
down. 

“  Yes,  he  has  never  rested,  and  he  has  found  out  all  about  it. 
It  is  a  most  extraordinary  story.  By  the  bye,  he  sends  you  af¬ 
fectionate  messages,  and  begs  you  to  accept  these  diamonds. 
They  were  my  mother’s,”  he  added,  his  voice  softening  and 
changing.  Corona  understood  his  tone,  and  perhaps  realised, 
too,  how  very  short  the  time  now  was.  She  opened  the  case 
carefully. 

“  They  are  very  beautiful;  your  mother  wore  them,  Gio¬ 
vanni  ?  ”  She  looked  lovingly  at  him,  and  then  bending  down 
kissed  the  splendid  coronet  as  though  in  reverence  of  the  dead 
Spanish  woman  who  had  borne  the  man  she  loved.  Whereat 
Giovanni  stole  to  her  side,  and  kissed  her  own  dark  hair  very 
tenderly. 

“  I  was  to  tell  you  that  there  are  a  great  many  more,”  he  said, 
“  which  my  father  will  offer  you  on  the  wedding-day.”  Then 
he  kneeled  down  beside  her,  and  raising  the  crown  from  its 
case,  set  it  with  both  his  hands  upon  her  diadem  of  braids. 

“  My  princess!”  he  exclaimed.  “How  beautiful  you  are  !  ” 
He  took  the  great  necklace,  and  clasped  it  about  her  white 


SARACINESCA. 


295 


throat.  “  Of  course,”  he  said,  “  you  have  such  splendid  jewels 
of  your  own,  perhaps  you  hardly  care  for  these  and  the  rest. 
But  I  like  to  see  you  with  them — it  makes  me  feel  that  you  are 
really  mine.” 

Corona  smiled  happily,  and  gently  took  the  coronet  from  her 
head,  returning  it  to  its  case.  She  let  the  necklace  remain 
about  her  throat. 

“You  have  not  told  me  about  your  father's  discovery,”  she 
said,  suddenly. 

“  Yes — I  will  tell  you.” 

In  a  few  minutes  he  communicated  to  her  the  details  of  the 
journey.  She  listened  with  profound  interest. 

“It  is  very  strange,”  she  said.  “And  yet  it  is  so  very 
natural.” 

“You  see  it  is  all  Del  Ferice's  doing,”  said  Giovanni.  “I 
suppose  it  was  really  an  accident  in  the  first  place;  but  he 
managed  to  make  a  great  deal  of  it.  It  is  certainly  very  amus¬ 
ing  to  find  that  the  last  of  the  other  branch  is  an  innkeeper  in 
the  Abruzzi.  However,  I  daresay  we  shall  never  hear  of  him 
again.  He  does  not  seem  inclined  to  claim  his  title.  Corona 
mia,  I  have  something  much  more  serious  to  say  to  you  to¬ 
night.” 

“  What  is  it  ?  ”  she  asked,  turning  her  great  dark  eyes  rather 
wonderingly  to  his  face. 

“  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  be  married,  now - ” 

“Do  you  think  I  ever  believed  there  was?”  she  asked,  re¬ 
proachfully. 

“Ho,  dear.  Only — would  you  mind  its  being  very  soon ?  ” 

The  dark  blood  rose  slowly  to  her  cheek,  but  she  answered 
without  any  hesitation.  She  was  too  proud  to  hesitate. 

“  Whenever  you  please,  Giovanni.  Only  it  must  be  very  quiet, 
and  we  will  go  straight  to  Saracinesca.  If  you  agree  to  those 
two  things,  it  shall  be  as  soon  as  you  please.” 

“Next  week?  A  week  from  Sunday?”  asked  Giovanni, 
eag6rly. 

“  Yes — a  week  from  Sunday.  I  would  rather  not  go  through 
the  ordeal  of  a  long  engagement.  I  cannot  bear  to  have  every 
one  here  congratulating  me  from  morning  till  night,  as  they 
insist  upon  doing.” 

“  I  will  send  the  people  out  to  Saracinesca  to-morrow,”  said 
Giovanni,  in  great  delight.  “They  have  been  at  work  all 
winter,  making  the  place  respectable.” 

“Not  changing,  I  hope?”  exclaimed  Corona,  who  dearly 
loved  the  old  grey  walls. 

“  Only  repairing  the  state  apartments.  By  the  bye,  I  met 
Gouache  this  evening.  He  is  going  out  with  a  company  of 
Zouaves  to  hunt  the  brigands,  if  there  really  are  any.” 


296 


SARACINESCA. 


“ I  hope  he  will  not  come  near  ns,”  answered  Corona.  “I 
want  to  be  all  alone  with  you,  Giovanni,  for  ever  so  long. 
Would  you  not  rather  be  alone  for  a  little  while?”  she  asked, 
looking  up  suddenly  with  a  timid  smile.  “  Should  I  bore  you 
very  much  ?  ” 

It  is  unnecessary  to  record  Giovanni’s  answer.  If  Corona 
longed  to  be  alone  with  him  in  the  hills,  Giovanni  himself  de¬ 
sired  such  a  retreat  still  more.  To  be  out  of  the  world,  even 
for  a  month,  seemed  to  him  the  most  delightful  of  prospects, 
for  he  was  weary  of  the  city,  of  society,  of  everything  save  the 
woman  he  was  about  to  marry.  Of  her  he  could  never  tire;  he 
could  not  imagine  that  in  her  company  the  days  would  ever 
seem  long,  even  in  old  Saracinesca,  among  the  grey  rocks  of  the 
Sabines.  The  average  man  is  gregarious,  perhaps;  but  in  strong 
minds  there  is  often  a  great  desire  for  solitude,  or  at  least  for 
retirement,  in  the  society  of  one  sympathetic  soul.  The  in¬ 
stinct  which  bids  such  people  leave  the  world  for  a  time  is 
never  permanent,  unless  they  become  morbid.  It  is  a  natural 
feeling;  and  a  strong  brain  gathers  strength  from  communing 
with  itself  or  with  its  natural  mate.  There  are  few  great  men 
who  have  not  at  one  time  or  another  withdrawn  into  solitude, 
and  their  retreat  has  generally  been  succeeded  by  a  period  of 
extraordinary  activity.  Strong  minds  are  often,  at  some  time 
or  another,  exposed  to  doubt  and  uncertainty  incomprehensible 
to  a  smaller  intellect — due,  indeed,  to  that  very  breadth  of  view 
which  contemplates  the  same  idea  from  a  vast  number  of  sides. 
To  a  man  so  endowed,  the  casting-vote  of  some  one  whom  he 
loves,  and  with  whom  he  almost  unconsciously  sympathises,  is 
sometimes  necessary  to  produce  action,  to  direct  the  faculties, 
to  guide  the  overflowing  flood  of  his  thought  into  the  mill-race 
of  life’s  work.  Without  a  certain  amount  of  prejudice  to  de¬ 
termine  the  resultant  of  its  forces,  many  a  fine  intellect  would 
expend  its  power  in  burrowing  among  its  own  labyrinths,  un¬ 
recognised,  misunderstood,  unheard  by  the  working-day  world 
without.  For  the  working-day  world  never  lacks  prejudice  to 
direct  its  working. 

For  some  time  Giovanni  and  Corona  talked  of  their  plans  for 
the  spring  and  summer.  They  would  read,  they  would  work 
together  at  the  schemes  for  uniting  and  improving  their  estates; 
they  would  build  that  new  road  from  Astrardente  to  Saraci¬ 
nesca,  concerning  which  there  had  been  so  much  discussion 
during  the  last  year;  they  would  visit  every  part  of  their  lands 
together,  and  inquire  into  the  condition  of  every  peasant ;  they 
would  especially  devote  their  attention  to  extending  the  forest 
enclosures,  in  which  Giovanni  foresaw  a  source  of  wealth  for 
his  children;  above  all,  they  would  talk  to  their  hearts’  con¬ 
tent,  and  feel,  as  each  day  dawned  upon  their  happiness,  that 


SARACINESCA. 


297 


they  were  tree  to  go  where  they  would,  without  being  con¬ 
fronted  at  every  turn  by  the  troublesome  duties  of  an  exigent 
society. 

At  last  the  conversation  turned  again  upon  recent  events, 
and  especially  upon  the  part  Del  Ferice  and  Donna  Tullia  had 
played  in  attempting  to  prevent  the  marriage.  Corona  asked 
what  Giovanni  intended  to  do  about  the  matter. 

“I  do  not  see  that  there  is  much  to  be  done,”  he  answered. 
“  I  will  go  to  Donna  Tullia  to-morrow,  and  explain  that  there 
has  been  a  curious  mistake — that  I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to 
her  for  calling  my  attention  to  the  existence  of  a  distant  rela¬ 
tive,  but  that  I  trust  she  will  not  in  future  interfere  in  my 
affairs.” 

“  Do  you  think  she  will  marry  Del  Ferice  after  all  ?  ”  asked 
Corona. 

“  Why  not  ?  Of  course  he  gave  her  the  papers.  Very  pos¬ 
sibly  he  thought  they  really  proved  my  former  marriage.  She 
will  perhaps  blame  him  for  her  failure,  but  he  will  defend  him¬ 
self,  never  fear;  he  will  make  her  marry  him.” 

“  I  wish  they  wTould  marry  and  go  away,”  said  Corona,  to 
whom  the  very  name  of  Del  Ferice  was  abhorrent,  and  who  de¬ 
tested  Donna  Tullia  almost  as  heartily.  Corona  was  a  very 
good  and  noble  woman,  but  she  was  very  far  from  that  saintly 
superiority  which  forgets  to  resent  injuries.  Her  passions  were 
eminently  human,  and  very  strong.  She  had  struggled  bravely 
against  her  overwhelming  love  for  Giovanni;  and  she  had  so 
far  got  the  mastery  of  herself,  that  she  would  have  endured  to 
the  end  if  her  husband’s  death  had  not  set  her  at  liberty. 
Perhaps,  too,  while  she  felt  the  necessity  of  fighting  against 
that  love,  she  attained  for  a  time  to  an  elevation  of  character 
which  would  have  made  such  personal  injuries  as  Donna  Tullia 
could  inflict  seem  insignificant  in  comparison  with  the  great 
struggle  she  sustained  against  an  even  greater  evil.  But  in  the 
realisation  of  her  freedom,  in  suddenly  giving  the  rein  to  her 
nature,  so  long  controlled  by  her  resolute  will,  all  passion 
seemed  to  break  out  at  once  with  renewed  force;  and  the  con¬ 
viction  that  her  anger  against  her  two  enemies  was  perfectly 
just  and  righteous,  added  fuel  to  the  fire.  Her  eyes  gleamed 
fiercely  as  she  spoke  of  Del  Ferice  and  his  bride,  and  no  pun¬ 
ishment  seemed  too  severe  for  those  who  had  so  treacherously 
tried  to  dash  the  cup  of  her  happiness  from  her  very  lips. 

“  I  wish  they  would  marry,”  she  repeated,  “  and  I  wish  the 
Cardinal  would  turn  them  out  of  Rome  the  next  day.” 

“  That  might  be  done,”  said  Giovanni,  who  had  himself  re¬ 
volved  more  than  one  scheme  of  vengeance  against  the  evil¬ 
doers.  “  The  trouble  is,  that  the  Cardinal  despises  Del  Ferice 
and  his  political  dilettanteism.  He  does  uot  care  a  fig  whether 


298 


SARACINESCA. 


the  fellow  remains  in  Rome  or  goes  away.  I  confess  it  would 
be  a  great  satisfaction  to  wring  the  villain’s  neck.” 

“  You  must  not  fight  him  again,  Giovanni,”  said  Corona,  in 
sudden  alarm.  “  You  must  not  risk  your  life  now — you  know 
it  is  mine  now.”  She  laid  her  hand  tenderly  on  his,  and  it 
trembled. 

“  No,  dearest — I  certainly  will  not.  But  my  father  is  very 
angry.  I  think  we  may  safely  leave  the  treatment  of  Del 
Ferice  in  his  hands.  My  father  is  a  very  sudden  and  violent 
man.” 

“  I  know,”  replied  Corona.  “  He  is  magnificent  when  he  is 
angry.  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  settle  Del  Ferice’s  affairs 
satisfactorily.”  She  laughed  almost  fiercely.  Giovanni  looked 
at  her  anxiously,  yet  not  without  pride,  as  he  recognised  in  her 
strong  anger  something  akin  to  himself. 

“  How  fierce  you  are  !  ”  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

“  Have  I  not  cause  to  be  ?  Have  I  not  cause  to  wish  these 
people  an  evil  end  ?  Have  they  not  nearly  separated  us  ? 
Nothing  is  bad  enough  for  them — what  is  the  use  of  pretending 
not  to  feel  ?  You  are  calm,  Giovanni  ?  Perhaps  you  are  much 
stronger  than  I  am.  I  do  not  think  you  realise  what  they 
meant  to  do — to  separate  us — us  !  As  if  any  torture  were  bad 
enough  for  them  !  ” 

Giovanni  had  never  seen  her  so  thoroughly  roused.  He  was 
angry  himself,  and  more  than  angry,  for  his  cheek  paled,  and 
his  stern  features  grew  more  hard,  while  his  voice  dropped  to  a 
hoarser  tone. 

“Do  not  mistake  me,  Corona,”  he  said.  “Do  not  think  I 
am  indifferent  because  I  am  quiet.  Del  Ferice  shall  expiate 
all  some  day,  and  bitterly  too.” 

“Indeed  I  hope  so,”  answered  Corona  between  her  teeth. 
Had  Giovanni  foreseen  the  long  and  bitter  struggle  he  would 
one  day  have  to  endure  before  that  expiation  was  complete,  he 
would  very  likely  have  renounced  his  vengeance  then  and 
there,  for  his  wife’s  sake.  But  we  mortals  see  but  in  a  glass; 
and  when  the  mirror  is  darkened  by  the  master-passion  of  hate, 
we  see  not  at  all.  Corona  and  Giovanni,  united,  rich  and  pow¬ 
erful,  might  indeed  appear  formidable  to  a  wretch  like  Del 
Ferice,  dependent  upon  a  system  of  daily  treachery  for  the  very 
bread  he  ate.  But  in  those  days  the  wheel  of  fortune  was  be¬ 
ginning  to  turn,  and  far-sighted  men  prophesied  that  many  an 
obscure  individual  would  one  day  be  playing  the  part  of  a  great 
personage.  Years  would  still  elapse  before  the  change,  but  the 
change  would  surely  come  at  last. 

Giovanni  was  very  thoughtful  as  he  walked  home  that  night. 
He  was  happy,  and  he  had  cause  to  be,  for  the  long-desired  day 
was  at  hand.  He  had  nearly  attained  the  object  of  his  life, 


SARACINESCA. 


299 


and  there  was  now  no  longer  any  obstacle  to  be  overcome.  The 
relief  he  felt  at  his  father’s  return  was  very  great;  for  although 
he  had  known  that  the  impediment  raised  would  be  soon  re¬ 
moved,  any  impediment  whatever  was  exasperating,  and  he 
could  not  calculate  the  trouble  that  might  be  caused  by  the 
further  machinations  of  Donna  Tullia  and  her  affianced  hus¬ 
band.  All  difficulties  had,  however,  been  overcome  by  his 
father’s  energetic  action,  and  at  once  Giovanni  felt  as  though 
a  load  had  fallen  from  his  shoulders,  and  a  veil  from  his  eyes. 
He  saw  himself  wedded  to  Corona  in  less  than  a  fortnight,  re¬ 
moved  from  the  sphere  of  society  and  of  all  his  troubles,  living 
for  a  space  alone  with  her  in  his  ancestral  home,  calling  her,  at 
last,  his  wife.  Nevertheless  he  was  thoughtful,  and  his  expres¬ 
sion  was  not  one  of  unmingled  gladness,  as  be  threaded  the 
streets  on  his  way  home;  for  his  mind  reverted  to  Del  Ferice 
and  to  Donna  Tullia,  and  Corona’s  fierce  look  was  still  before 
him.  He  reflected  that  she  had  been  nearly  as  much  injured 
as  himself,  that  her  wrath  was  legitimate,  and  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  visit  her  sufferings  as  well  as  his  own  upon  the  offend¬ 
ers.  His  melancholic  nature  easily  fell  to  brooding  over  any 
evil  which  was  strong  enough  to  break  the  barrier  of  his 
indifference;  and  the  annoyances  which  had  sprung  originally 
from  so  small  a  cause  had  grown  to  gigantic  proportions,  and 
had  struck  at  the  very  roots  of  his  happiness. 

He  had  begun  by  disliking  Del  Ferice  in  an  indifferent  way 
whenever  he  chanced  to  cross  his  path.  Del  Ferice  had  re¬ 
sented  this  haughty  indifference  as  a  personal  insult,  and  had 
set  about  injuring  Giovanni,  attempting  to  thwart  him  when¬ 
ever  he  could.  Giovanni  had  caught  Del  Ferice  in  a  dastardly 
trick,  and  had  been  so  far  roused  as  to  take  summary  vengeance 
upon  him  in  the  duel  which  took  place  after  the  Frangipani 
ball.  The  wound  had  entered  into  Ugo’s  soul,  and  his  hatred 
had  grown  the  faster  that  he  found  no  opportunity  of  revenge. 
Then,  at  last,  when  Giovanni’s  happiness  had  seemed  complete, 
his  enemy  had  put  forward  his  pretended  proof  of  a  former 
marriage;  knowing  well  enough  that  his  weapons  were  not 
invincible — were  indeed  very  weak — but  unable  to  resist  any 
longer  the  desire  for  vengeance.  Once  more  Giovanni  had  tri¬ 
umphed  easily,  but  with  victory  came  the  feeling  that  it  was 
his  turn  to  punish  his  adversary.  And  now  there  was  a  new 
and  powerful  motive  added  to  Giovanni’s  just  resentment,  in 
the  anger  his  future  wife  felt,  and  had  a  good  right  to  feel,  at 
the  treachery  which  had  been  practised  upon  both.  It  had 
taken  two  years  to  rouse  Giovanni  to  energetic  action  against 
one  whom  he  had  in  turn  regarded  with  indifference,  then 
despised,  then  honestly  disliked,  and  finally  hated.  But  his 
hatred  had  been  doubled  each  time  by  a  greater  injury,  and 


300 


SARACINESCA. 


was  not  likely  to  be  easily  satisfied.  Nothing  short  of  Del 
Ferice’s  destruction  would  be  enough,  and  his  destruction  must 
be  brought  about  by  legal  means. 

Giovanni  had  not  far  to  seek  for  his  weapons.  He  had  long 
suspected  Del  Ferice  of  treasonable  practices  ;  he  did  not 
doubt  that  with  small  exertion  he  could  find  evidence  to  con¬ 
vict  him.  He  would,  then,  allow  him  to  marry  Donna  Tullia  ; 
and  on  the  day  after  the  wedding,  Del  Ferice  should  be  ar¬ 
rested  and  lodged  in  the  prison  of  the  Holy  Office  as  a  political 
delinquent  of  the  meanest  and  most  dangerous  kind — as  a 
political  spy.  The  determination  was  soon  reached.  It  did 
not  seem  cruel  to  Giovanni,  for  he  was  in  a  relentless  mood; 
it  would  not  have  seemed  cruel  to  Corona, — Del  Ferice  had  de¬ 
served  all  that,  and  more  also. 

So  Giovanni  went  home  and  slept  the  sleep  of  a  man  who  has 
made  up  his  mind  upon  an  important  matter.  And  in  the 
morning  he  rose  early  and  communicated  his  ideas  to  his  father. 
The  result  was  that  they  determined  for  the  present  to  avoid 
an  interview  with  Donna  Tullia,  and  to  communicate  to  her  by 
letter  the  result  of  old  Saracinesca’s  rapid  journey  to  Aquila. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

When  Donna  Tullia  received  Saracinesca’s  note,  explaining 
the  existence  of  a  second  Giovanni,  his  pedigree  and  present 
circumstances,  she  almost  fainted  with  disappointment.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  compromised  herself  before  the 
world,  that  all  Rome  knew  the  ridiculous  part  she  had  played 
in  Del  Ferice’s  comedy,  and  that  her  shame  would  never  be  for¬ 
gotten.  Suddenly  she  saw  how  she  had  been  led  away  by  her 
hatred  of  Giovanni  into  believing  blindly  in  a  foolish  tale 
which  ought  not  to  have  deceived  a  child.  So  soon  as  she 
learned  the  existence  of  a  second  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  must  have  been  mad  not  to  foresee  such 
an  explanation  from  the  first.  She  had  been  duped,  she  had 
been  made  a  catVpawr,  she  had  been  abominably  deceived  by 
Del  Ferice,  who  had  made  use  of  this  worthless  bribe  in  order 
to  extort  from  her  a  promise  of  marriage.  She  felt  very  ill, 
as  very  vain  people  often  do  when  they  feel  that  they  have 
been  made  ridiculous.  She  lay  upon  the  sofa  in  her  little 
boudoir,  where  everything  was  in  the  worst  possible  taste — 
from  the  gaudy  velvet  carpet  and  satin  furniture  to  the  gilt 
clock  on  the  chimney-piece — and  she  turned  red  and  pale  and 
red  again,  and  wished  she  were  dead,  or  in  Paris,  or  anywhere 
save  in  Rome.  If  she  went  out  she  might  meet  one  of  the 
Saracinesca  at  any  turn  of  the  street,  or  even  Corona  herself. 
How  they  would  "bow  and  smile  sweetly  at  her,  enjoying  her 


SARACINESCA. 


301 


discomfiture  with  the  polite  superiority  of  people  who  cannot 
be  hurt ! 

And  she  herself — she  could  not  tell  what  she  should  do.  She 
had  announced  her  engagement  to  Del  Ferice,  but  she  could 
not  marry  him.  She  had  been  entrapped  into  making  him  a 
promise,  into  swearing  a  terrible  oath;  but  the  Church  did  not 
consider  such  oaths  binding.  She  would  go  to  Padre  Filippo 
aud  ask  his  advice. 

But  then,  if  she  went  to  Padre  Filippo,  she  would  have  to 
confess  all  she  had  done,  and  she  was  not  prepared  to  do  that. 
A  few  weeks  would  pass,  and  that  time  would  be  sufficient  to 
mellow  and  smooth  the  remembrance  of  her  revengeful  pro¬ 
jects  into  a  less  questionable  shape.  No — she  could  not  confess 
all  that  just  yet.  Surely  such  an  oath  was  not  binding;  at 
all  events,  she  could  not  marry  Del  Ferice,  whether  she  broke 
her  promise  or  not.  In  the  first  place,  she  would  send  for  him 
and  vent  her  anger  upon  him  while  it  was  hot. 

Accordingly,  in  the  space  of  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  Ugo 
appeared,  smiling,  smooth  and  persuasive  as  usual.  Donna 
Tullia  assumed  a  fine  attitude  of  disdain  as  she  heard  his  step 
outside  the  door.  She  intended  to  impress  him  with  a  full 
and  sudden  view  of  her  just  anger.  He  did  not  seem  much 
moved,  and  came  forward  as  usual  to  take  her  hand  and  kiss  it. 
But  she  folded  her  arms  and  stared  at  him  with  all  the  con¬ 
tempt  she  could  concentrate  in  the  gaze  of  her  blue  eyes.  It 
was  a  good  comedy.  Del  Ferice,  who  had  noticed  as  soon  as  he 
entered  the  room  that  something  was  wrong,  and  had  already 
half  guessed  the  cause,  affected  to  spring  back  in  horror  when 
she  refused  to  give  her  hand.  His  pale  face  expressed  suffi¬ 
ciently  well  a  mixture  of  indignation  and  sorrow  at  the  harsh 
treatment  he  received.  Still  Donna  Tullia’s  cold  eye  rested 
upon  him  in  a  fixed  stare. 

“  What  is  this  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  ”  asked  Del  Ferice  in 
low  tones. 

“  Can  you  ask  ?  Wretch  !  Read  that,  and  understand  what 
you  have  done,”  answered  Donna  Tullia,  making  a  step  for¬ 
ward  and  thrusting  Saracinesca’s  letter  in  his  face. 

Del  Ferice  had  already  seen  the  handwriting,  and  knew  what 
the  contents  were  likely  to  be.  He  took  the  letter  in  one  hand, 
and  without  looking  at  it,  still  faced  the  angry  woman.  His 
brows  contracted  into  a  heavy  frown,  and  his  half-closed  eyes 
gazed  menacingly  at  her. 

“  It  will  be  an  evil  day  for  any  man  who  comes  between  you 
and  me,”  he  said,  in  tragic  tones. 

Donna  Tullia  laughed  harshly,  and  again  drew  herself  up, 
watching  his  face,  and  expecting  to  witness  his  utter  confusion. 
But  she  was  no  match  for  the  actor  whom  she  had  promised  to 


302 


SARACINESCA. 


marry.  Del  Ferice  began  to  read,  and  as  he  read,  his  frown 
relaxed ;  gradually  an  ugly  smile,  intended  to  represent  fiendish 
cunning,  stole  oyer  his  features,  and  when  he  had  finished,  he 
uttered  a  cry  of  triumph. 

“  Ha  ! 99  he  said,  “  I  guessed  it  !  I  hoped  it — and  it  is  true  ! 
He  is  found  at  last  !  The  very  man — the  real  Saracinesca  ! 
It  is  only  a  matter  of  time - ■" 

Donna  Tullia  now  stared  in  unfeigned  surprise.  Instead  of 
crushing  him  to  the  ground  as  she  had  expected,  the  letter 
seemed  to  fill  him  with  boundless  delight.  He  paced  the  room 
in  wild  excitement,  chattering  like  a  madman.  In  spite  of 
herself,  however,  her  own  spirits  rose,  and  her  anger  against  Del 
Ferice  softened.  All  was  perhaps  not  lost — who  could  fathom 
the  intricacy  of  his  great  schemes  ?  Surely  he  was  not  the 
man  to  fall  a  victim  to  his  own  machinations. 

“  Will  you  please  explain  your  extraordinary  satisfaction  at 
this  news  ?  ”  said  Madame  Mayer.  Between  her  late  anger, 
her  revived  hopes,  and  her  newly  roused  curiosity,  she  was  in  a 
terrible  state  of  suspense. 

“  Explain  ?  ”  he  cried.  “  Explain  what,  most  adorable  of 
women  ?  Does  it  not  explain  itself  ?  Have  we  not  found  the 
Marchese  di  San  Giacinto,  the  real  Saracinesca  ?  Is  not  that 
enough  ? 99 

“  I  do  not  understand - ” 

Del  Ferice  was  now  by  her  side.  He  seemed  hardly  able  to 
control  himself  for  joy.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  acting, 
and  acting  a  desperate  part  too,  suggested  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  by  the  risk  he  ran  of  losing  this  woman  and  her  for¬ 
tune  on  the  very  eve  of  marriage.  Now  he  seized  her  hand, 
and  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  led  her  quickly  backwards 
and  forwards,  talking  fast  and  earnestly.  It  would  not  do  to 
hesitate,  for  by  a  moment’s  appearance  of  uncertainty  all  would 
be  lost. 

“No;  of  course  you  cannot  understand  the  vast  importance 
of  this  discovery.  I  must  explain.  I  must  enter  into  historic 
details,  and  I  am  so  much  overcome  by  this  extraordinary  turn 
of  fortune  that  I  can  hardly  speak.  Remove  all  doubt  from 
your  mind,  my  dear  lady,  for  we  have  already  triumphed.  This 
innkeeper,  this  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  this  Marchese  di  San 
Giacinto,  is  the  lawful  and  right  Prince  Saracinesca,  the  head 
of  the  house - ” 

“  What !  ”  screamed  Donna  Tullia,  stopping  short,  and  grip¬ 
ping  his  arm  as  in  a  vice. 

“  Indeed  he  is.  I  suspected  it  when  I  first  found  the  signa¬ 
ture  at  Aquila;  but  the  man  was  gone,  with  his  newly  married 
wife,  no  one  knew  whither;  and  I  could  not  find  him,  search  as 
I  might.  He  is  now  returned,  and  what  is  more,  as  this  letter 


SARACINESCA. 


303 


says,  with  all  his  papers  proving  his  identity.  This  is  how  the 
matter  lies.  Listen,  Tullia  mia.  The  old  Leone  Saracinesca 
who  last  bore  the  title  of  Marquis - ” 

“  The  one  mentioned  here  ? "  asked  Donna  Tullia,  breath¬ 
lessly. 

“Yes— the  one  who  took  service  under  Murat,  under  Napo¬ 
leon.  Well,  it  is  perfectly  well  known  that  he  laid  claim  to  the 
Roman  title,  and  with  perfect  justice.  Two  generations  before 
that,  there  had  been  an  amicable  arrangement— amicable,  but 
totally  illegal — whereby  the  elder  brother,  who  was  an  unmar¬ 
ried  invalid,  transferred  the  Roman  estates  to  his  younger 
brother,  who  was  married  and  had  children,  and,  in  exchange, 
took  the  Neapolitan  estates  and  title,  which  had  just  fallen  back 
to  the  main  branch  by  the  death  of  a  childless  Marchese  di  San 
Giacinto.  Late  in  life  this  old  recluse  invalid  married,  contrary 
to  all  expectation — certainly  contrary  to  his  own  previous  inten¬ 
tions.  However,  a  child  was  born — a  boy.  The  old  man  found 
himself  deprived  by  his  own  act  of  his  principality,  and  the 
succession  turned  from  his  son  to  the  son  of  his  younger  brother. 
He  began  a  negotiation  for  again  obtaining  possession  of  the 
Roman  title — at  least  so  the  family  tradition  goes — but  his 
brother,  who  was  firmly  established  in  Rome,  refused  to  listen 
to  his  demands.  At  this  juncture  the  old  man  died,  being 
legally,  observe,  still  the  head  of  the  family  of  Saracinesca;  his 
son  should  have  succeeded  him.  But  his  wife,  the  young 
daughter  of  an  obscure  Neapolitan  nobleman,  was  not  more 
than  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  the  child  was  only  six  months 
old.  People  married  young  in  those  days.  She  entered  some 
kind  of  protest,  which,  however,  was  of  no  avail;  and  the  boy 
grew  up  to  be  called  the  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto.  He  learned 
the  story  of  his  birth  from  his  mother,  and  protested  in  his  turn. 
He  ruined  himself  in  trying  to  push  his  suit  in  the  Neapolitan 
courts;  and  finally,  in  the  days  of  NapoleoiTs  success,  he  took 
service  under  Murat,  receiving  the  solemn  promise  of  the 
Emperor  that  he  should  be  reinstated  in  his  title.  But  the 
Emperor  forgot  his  promise,  or  did  not  find  it  convenient  to 
keep  it,  having  perhaps  reasons  of  his  own  for  not  quarrelling 
with  Pins  the  Seventh,  who  protected  the  Roman  Saracinesca. 
Then  came  1815,  the  downfall  of  the  Empire,  the  restoration  of 
Ferdinand  IV.  in  Naples,  the  confiscation  of  property  from  all 
who  had  joined  the  Emperor,  and  the  consequent  complete  ruin 
of  San  Giacinto's  hopes.  He  was  supposed  to  have  been  killed, 
or  to  have  made  away  with  himself.  Saracinesca  himself 
acknowledges  that  his  grandson  is  alive,  and  possesses  all  the 
family  papers.  Saracinesca  himself  has  discovered,  seen,  and 
conversed  with  the  lawful  head  of  his  race,  who,  by  the  blessing 
of  heaven  and  the  assistance  of  the  courts,  will  before  long  turn 


304 


SARACINESCA. 


him  out  of  house  and  home,  and  reign  in  his  stead  in  all  the 
glories  of  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca,  Prince  of  Rome,  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire,  grandee  of  Spain  of  the  first  class,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  Do  you  wonder  I  rejoice,  now  that  I  am  sure  of  put¬ 
ting  an  innkeeper  over  my  enemy’s  head  ?  Fancy  the  humilia¬ 
tion  of  old  Saracinesca,  of  Giovanni,  who  will  have  to  take  his 
wife’s  title  for  the  sake  of  respectability,  of  the  Astrardente 
herself,  when  she  finds  she  has  married  the  penniless  son  of  a 
penniless  pretender!” 

Del  Ferice  knew  enough  of  the  Saracinesca’s  family  history 
to  know  that  something  like  what  he  had  so  fluently  detailed  to 
Donna  Tullia  had  actually  occurred,  and  he  knew  well  enough 
that  she  would  not  remember  every  detail  of  his  rapidly  told 
tale.  Hating  the  family  as  he  did,  he  had  diligently  sought  out 
all  information  about  them  which  he  could  obtain  without  gain¬ 
ing  access  to  their  private  archives.  His  ready  wit  helped  him 
to  string  the  whole  into  a  singularly  plausible  story.  So  plausi¬ 
ble,  indeed,  that  it  entirely  upset  all  Donna  Tullia’s  determina¬ 
tion  to  be  angry  at  Del  Ferice,  and  filled  her  with  something  of 
the  enthusiasm  he  showed.  For  himself  he  hoped  that  there 
was  enough  in  his  story  to  do  some  palpable  injury  to  the 
Saracinesca;  but  his  more  immediate  object  was  not  to  lose 
Donna  Tullia  by  letting  her  feel  any  disappointment  at  the  dis¬ 
covery  recently  made  by  the  old  Prince.  Donna  Tullia  listened 
with  breathless  interest  until  he  had  finished. 

“  What  a  man  you  are,  Ugo!  How  you  turn  defeat  into  vic¬ 
tory  !  Is  it  all  really  true  ?  Do  you  think  we  can  do  it  ?  ” 

“  If  I  were  to  die  this  instant,”  Del  Ferice  asseverated, 
solemnly  raising  his  hand,  “  it  is  all  perfectly  true,  so  help  me 
God!” 

He  hoped,  for  many  reasons,  that  he  was  not  perjuring  him¬ 
self. 

“  What  shall  we  do,  then  ?  ”  asked  Madame  Mayer. 

“  Let  them  marry  first,  and  then  we  shall  be  sure  of  humili¬ 
ating  them  both,”  he  answered.  Unconsciously  he  repeated 
the  very  determination  which  Giovanni  had  formed  against  him 
the  night  before.  “  Meanwhile,  you  and  I  can  consult  the 
lawyers  and  see  how  this  thing  can  best  be  accomplished  quickly 
and  surely,”  he  added. 

“  You  will  have  to  send  for  the  innkeeper - ” 

“  I  will  go  and  see  him.  It  will  not  be  hard  to  persuade  him 
to  claim  his  lawful  rights.” 

Del  Ferice  remained  some  time  in  conversation  with  Donna 
Tullia.  The  magnitude  of  the  scheme  fascinated  her,  and 
instead  of  thinking  of  breaking  her  promise  to  Ugo  as  she  had 
intended  doing,  she  so  far  fell  under  his  unfluence  as  to  name 
the  wedding-day, — Easter  Monday,  they  agreed,  would  exactly 


SARACINESCA. 


305 


suit  them  and  their  plans.  Indeed  the  idea  of  refusing  to 
fulfil  her  engagement  had  been  but  the  result  of  a  transitory  fit 
of  anger;  if  she  had  had  any  fear  of  making  a  misalliance  in 
marrying  Del  Ferice,  the  way  in  which  the  world  received  the 
news  of  the  engagement  removed  all  such  apprehension  from 
her  mind.  Del  Ferice  was  already  treated  with  increased 
respect — the  very  servants  began  to  call  him  “  Eccellenza,”  a 
distinction  to  which  he  neither  had,  nor  could  ever  have,  any 
kind  of  claim,  but  which  pleased  Donna  Tullia’s  vain  soul. 
The  position  which  Ugo  had  obtained  for  himself  by  an 
assiduous  attention  to  the  social  claims  and  prejudices  of  social 
lights  and  oracles,  was  suddenly  assured  to  him,  and  rendered 
tenfold  more  brilliant  by  the  news  of  his  alliance  with  Donna 
Tullia.  He  excited  no  jealousies  either;  for  Donna  Tullia’s 
peculiarities  were  of  a  kind  which  seemed  to  have  interfered 
from  the  first  with  her  matrimonial  projects.  As  a  young  girl, 
a  relation  of  the  Saracinesca,  whom  she  now  so  bitterly  hated, 
she  should  have  been  regarded  as  marriageable  by  any  of  the 
young  Roman  nobles,  from  Valdarno  down.  But  she  had  only 
a  small  dowry,  and  she  was  said  to  be  extravagant — two  objec¬ 
tions  then  not  so  easily  overcome  as  now.  Moreover,  she  was 
considered  to  be  somewhat  flighty;  and  the  social  jury  decided 
that  when  she  was  married,  she  would  be  excellent  company, 
but  would  make  a  very  poor  wife.  Almost  before  they  had 
finished  discussing  her,  however,  she  had  found  a  husband,  in 
the  shape  of  the  wealthy  foreign  contractor,  Mayer,  who  wanted 
a  wife  from  a  good  Roman  house,  and  cared  not  at  all  for 
money.  She  treated  him  very  well,  but  was  speedily  delivered 
from  all  her  cares  by  his  untimely  death.  Then,  of  all  her 
fellow-citizens,  none  was  found  save  the  eccentric  old  Saraci¬ 
nesca,  who  believed  that  she  would  do  for  his  son ;  wherein  it 
appeared  that  Giovanni’s  father  was  the  man  of  all  others  who 
least  understood  Giovanni’s  inclinations.  But  this  match  fell 
to  the  ground,  owing  to  Giovanni’s  attachment  to  Corona,  and 
Madame  Mayer  was  left  with  the  prospect  of  remaining  a  widow 
for  the  rest  of  her  life,  or  of  marrying  a  poor  man.  She  chose 
the  latter  alternative,  and  fate  threw  into  her  way  the  cleverest 
poor  man  in  Rome,  as  though  desiring  to  compensate  her  for 
not  having  married  one  of  the  greatest  nobles,  in  the  person  of 
Giovanni.  Though  she  was  always  a  centre  of  attraction,  no 
one  of  those  she  most  attracted  wanted  to  marry  her,  and  all 
expressed  their  unqualified  approval  of  her  ultimate  choice. 
One  said  she  was  very  generous  to  marry  a  penniless  gentleman; 
another  remarked  that  she  showed  wisdom  in  choosing  a  man 
who  was  in  the  way  of  making  himself  a  good  position  under 
the  Italian  Government;  a  third  observed  that  he  was  delighted, 
because  he  could  enjoy  her  society  without  being  suspected  of 


306 


SARACINESCA. 


wanting  to  marry  her;  and  all  agreed  in  praising  her,  and  in 
treating  Del  Ferice  with  the  respect  due  to  a  man  highly 
favoured  by  fortune. 

Donna  Tullia  named  the  wedding-day,  and  her  affianced  hus¬ 
band  departed  in  high  spirits  with  himself,  with  her,  and  with 
his  scheme.  He  felt  still  a  little  excited,  and  wanted  to  be 
alone.  He  hardly  realised  the  magnitude  of  the  plot  he  had 
undertaken,  and  needed  time  to  reflect  upon  it;  but  with  the 
true  instinct  of  an  intriguing  genius  he  recognised  at  once  that 
his  new  plan  was  the  thing  he  had  sought  for  long  and  ar¬ 
dently,  and  that  it  was  worth  all  his  other  plans  put  together. 
Accordingly  he  went  home,  and  proceeded  to  devote  himself  to 
the  study  of  the  question,  sending  a  note  to  a  friend  of  his — a 
young  lawyer  of  doubtful  reputation,  but  of  brilliant  parts, 
whom  he  at  once  selected  as  his  chief  counsellor  in  the  impor¬ 
tant  affair  he  had  undertaken. 

Before  long  he  heard  that  the  marriage  of  Don  Giovanni 
Saracinesca  to  the  Duchessa  d’Astrardente  was  to  take  place 
the  next  week,  in  the  chapel  of  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca.  At 
least  popular  report  said  that  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place 
there ;  and  that  it  was  to  be  performed  with  great  privacy  was 
sufficiently  evident  from  the  fact  that  no  invitations  appeared  to 
have  been  issued.  Society  did  not  fail  to  comment  upon  such 
exclusiveness,  and  it  commented  unfavourably,  for  it  felt  that 
it  was  being  deprived  of  a  long-anticipated  spectacle.  This 
state  of  things  lasted  for  two  days,  when,  upon  the  Sunday 
morning  precisely  a  week  before  the  wedding,  all  Rome  was 
surprised  by  receiving  an  imposing  invitation,  setting  forth 
that  the  marriage  would  be  solemnised  in  the  Basilica  of  the 
Santi  Apostoli,  and  that  it  would  be  followed  by  a  state  recep¬ 
tion  at  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca.  It  was  soon  known  that  the 
ceremony  would  be  performed  by  the  Cardinal  Archpriest  of 
St.  Peter’s,  that  the  united  choirs  of  St.  Peter’s  and  of  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel  would  sing  the  High  Mass,  and  that  the  whole 
occasion  would  be  one  of  unprecedented  solemnity  and  magnifi¬ 
cence.  This  was  the  programme  published  by  the  ‘  Osserva- 
tore  Romano/  and  that  newspaper  proceeded  to  pronounce  a 
eulogy  of  some  length  and  considerable  eloquence  upon  the 
happy  pair.  Rome  was  fairly  taken  off  its  feet;  and  although 
some  malcontents  were  found,  who  said  it  was  improper  that 
Corona’s  marriage  should  be  celebrated  with  such  pomp  so  soon 
after  her  husband’s  death,  the  general  verdict  was  that  the 
whole  proceeding  was  eminently  proper  and  becoming  to  so 
important  an  event.  So  soon  as  every  one  had  been  invited, 
no  one  seemed  to  think  it  remarkable  that  'the  invitations 
should  have  been  issued  so  late.  It  was  not  generally  known 
that  in  the  short  time  which  elapsed  between  the  naming  of 


SARACLN'ESCA. 


307 


the  day  and  the  issuing  of  the  cards,  there  had.  been  several  in¬ 
terviews  between  old  Saracinesca  and  Cardinal  Antonelli;  that 
the  former  had  explained  Corona’s  natural  wish  that  the  mar¬ 
riage  should  be  private,  and  that  the  latter  had  urged  many 
reasons  why  so  great  an  event  ought  to  be  public;  that  Saraci¬ 
nesca  had  said  he  did  not  care  at  all,  and  was  only  expressing 
the  views  of  his  son  and  of  the  bride;  that  the  Cardinal  had 
repeatedly  asseverated  that  he  wished  to  please  everybody;  that 
Corona  had  refused  to  be  pleased  by  a  public  ceremony ;  and 
that,  finally,  the  Cardinal,  seeing  himself  hard  pressed,  had 
persuaded  his  Holiness  himself  to  express  a  wish  that  the  mar¬ 
riage  should  take  place  in  the  most  solemn  and  public  man¬ 
ner;  wherefore  Corona  had  reluctantly  yielded  the  point,  and 
the  matter  was  arranged.  The  fact  was  that  the  Cardinal 
wished  to  make  a  sort  of  demonstration  of  the  solidarity  of  the 
Roman  nobility:  it  suited  his  aims  to  enter  into  every  detail 
which  could  add  to  the  importance  of  the  Roman  Court,  and 
which  could  help  to  impress  upon  the  foreign  Ministers  the 
belief  that  in  all  matters  the  Romans  as  one  man  would  stand 
by  each  other  and  by  the  Vatican.  No  one  knew  better  than 
he  how  the  spectacle  of  a  religious  solemnity,  at  which  the 
whole  nobility  would  attend  in  a  body,  must  strike  the  mind 
of  a  stranger  in  Rome;  for  in  Roman  ceremonies  of  that  day 
there  was  a  pomp  and  magnificence  surpassing  that  found  in 
any  other  Court  of  Europe.  The  whole  marriage  would  become 
an  event  of  which  he  could  make  an  impressive  use,  and  he  was 
determined  not  to  forego  any  advantages  which  might  arise 
from  it;  for  he  was  a  man  who  of  all  men  well  understood  the 
value  of  details  in  maintaining  prestige. 

But  to  the  two  principal  actors  in  the  day’s  doings  the  affair 
was  an  unmitigated  annoyance,  and  even  their  own  great  and 
true  happiness  could  not  lighten  the  excessive  fatigue  of  the 
pompous  ceremony  and  of  the  still  more  pompous  reception 
which  followed  it.  To  describe  that  day  would  be  to  make  out 
a  catalogue  of  gorgeous  equipages,  gorgeous  costumes,  gorgeous 
decorations.  Many  pages  would  not  suffice  to  enumerate  the 
cardinals,  the  dignitaries,  the  ambassadors,  the  great  nobles, 
whose  magnificent  coaches  drove  up  in  long  file  through  the 
Piazza  dei  Santi  Apostoli  to  the  door  of  the  Basilica.  The 
columns  of  the  e  Osservatore  Romano  ’  were  full  of  it  for  a  week 
afterwards.  There  was  no  end  to  the  descriptions  of  the  cos¬ 
tumes,  from  the  white  satin  and  diamonds  of  the  bride  to  the 
festal  uniforms  of  the  Cardinal  Archpriest’s  retinue.  Not  a 
personage  of  importance  was  overlooked  in  the  newspaper  ac¬ 
count,  not  a  diplomatist,  notan  officer  of  Zouaves.  And  society 
read  the  praise  of  itself,  and  found  it  much  more  interesting 
than  the  praise  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom;  and  only  one  or 


308 


SARACIHE-SCA. 


two  people  were  offended  because  the  paper  had  made  a  mis¬ 
take  in  naming  the  colours  of  the  hammer-cloths  upon  their 
coaches:  so  that  the  affair  was  a  great  success. 

But  when  at  last  t’he  sun  was  low  and  the  guests  had  de¬ 
parted  from  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca,  Corona  and  Giovanni  got 
into  their  travelling  carriage  under  the  great  dark  archway,  and 
sighed  a  sigh  of  infinite  relief.  The  old  Prince  put  his  arms 
tenderly  around  his  new  daughter  and  kissed  her;  and  for  the 
second  time  in  the  course  of  this  history,  it  is  to  be  recorded 
that  two  tears  stole  silently  down  his  brown  cheeks  to  his  grey 
beard.  Then  he  embraced  Giovanni,  whose  face  was  pale  and 
earnest. 

“  This  is  not  the  end  of  our  living  together,  padre  mio”  he 
said.  “We  shall  expect  you  before  long  at  Saracinesca.” 

“Yes,  my  boy,”  returned  the  old  man;  “I  will  come  and  see 
you  after  Easter.  But  do  not  stay  if  it  is  too  cold;  I  have  a 
little  business  to  attend  to  in  Rome  before  I  join  you,”  he  added, 
with  a  grim  smile. 

“  I  know,”  replied  Giovanni,  a  savage  light  in  his  black  eyes. 
“  If  you  need  help,  send  to  me,  or  come  yourself.” 

“No  fear  of  that,  Giovannino;  I  have  got  a  terrible  helper. 
Now,  be  off.  The  guards  are  growing  impatient.” 

“  Good-bye.  God  bless  you,  padre  mio  !  ” 

“  God  bless  you  both !  ”  So  they  drove  off,  and  left  old  Sara¬ 
cinesca  standing  bareheaded  and  alone  under  the  dim  archway 
of  his  ancestral  palace.  The  great  carriage  rolled  out,  and  the 
guard  of  mounted  gendarmes,  which  the  Cardinal  had  insisted 
upon  sending  with  the  young  couple,  half  out  of  compliment, 
half  for  safety,  fell  in  behind,  and  trotted  down  the  narrow 
street,  with  a  deafening  clatter  of  hoofs  and  clang  of  scabbards. 

But  Giovanni  held  Corona’s  hand  in  his,  and  both  were  silent 
for  a  time.  Then  they  rolled  under  the  low  vault  of  the  Porta 
San  Lorenzo  and  out  into  the  evening  sunlight  of  the  Cam- 
pagna  beyond. 

“  God  be  praised  that  it  has  come  at  last!”  said  Giovanni. 

“  Yes,  it  has  come,”  answered  Corona,  her  strong  white  fingers 
closing  upon  his  brown  hand  almost  convulsively ;  “  and,  come 
what  may,  you  are  mine,  Giovanni,  until  we  die !  ” 

There  was  something  fierce  in  the  way  those  two  loved  each 
other;  for  they  had  fought  many  fights  before  they  were  united, 
and  had  overcome  themselves,  each  alone,  before  they  had  over¬ 
come  other  obstacles  together. 

Relays  of  horses  awaited  them  on  their  way,  and  relays  of 
mounted  guards.  Late  that  night  they  reached  Saracinesca,  all 
ablaze  with  torches  and  lanterns;  and  the  young  men  took  the 
horses  from  the  coach  and  yoked  themselves  to  it  with  ropes, 
and  dragged  the  cumbrous  carriage  up  the  last  hill  with  furious 


SARACINESCA. 


309 


speed,  shouting  and  singing  like  madmen  in  the  cool  mountain 
air.  Up  the  steep  they  rushed,  and  under  the  grand  old  gate¬ 
way,  made  as  bright  as  day  with  flaming  torches;  and  then 
there  went  up  a  shout  that  struck  the  old  vaults  like  a  wild 
chord  of  fierce  music,  and  Corona  knew  that  her  journey  was 
ended. 

So  it  was  that  Giovanni  Saracinesca  brought  home  his  bride. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  old  Prince  was  left  alone,  as  he  had  often  been  left  be¬ 
fore,  when  Giovanni  was  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  in  pur¬ 
suit  of  his  amusements.  On  such  occasions  old  Saracinesca 
frequently  packed  up  his  traps  and  followed  his  soiTs  exam¬ 
ple;  but  he  rarely  went  further  than  Paris,  where  he  had  many 
friends,  and  where  he  generally  succeeded  in  finding  consolation 
for  his  solitude. 

Now,  however,  he  felt  more  than  usually  lonely.  Giovanni 
had  not  gone  far,  it  is  true,  for  with  good  horses  it  was  scarcely 
more  than  eight  hours  to  the  castle;  but,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  old  Saracinesca  felt  that  if  he  had  suddenly  determined 
to  follow  his  son,  he  would  not  be  welcome.  The  boy  was  mar¬ 
ried  at  last,  and  must  be  left  in  peace  for  a  few  days  with  his 
bride.  With  the  contrariety  natural  to  him,  old  Saracinesca  no 
sooner  felt  that  his  son  was  gone  than  he  experienced  the  most 
ardent  desire  to  be  with  him.  He  had  often  seen  Giovanni 
leave  the  house  at  twenty-four  hours5  notice  on  his  way  to  some 
distant  capital,  and  had  not  cared  to  accompany  him,*  simply 
because  he  knew  he  might  do  so  if  he  pleased;  but  now  he  felt 
that  some  one  else  had  taken  his  place,  and  that,  for  a  time 
at  least,  he  was  forcibly  excluded  from  Giovanni's  society.  It 
is  very  likely  that  but  for  the  business  which  detained  him  in 
Rome  he  would  have  astonished  the  happy  pair  by  riding  into 
the  gateway  of  the  old  castle  on  the  day  after  the  wedding: 
that  business,  however,  was  urgent,  secret,  and,  moreover,  very 
congenial  to  the  old  man's  present  temper. 

He  had  discussed  the  matter  fully  with  Giovanni,  and  they 
had  agreed  upon  the  course  to  be  pursued.  There  was,  never¬ 
theless,  much  to  be  done  before  the  end  they  both  so  earnestly 
desired  could  be  attained.  It  seemed  a  simple  plan  to  go  to 
Cardinal  Antonelli  and  to  demand  the  arrest  of  Del  Eerice  for 
his  misdeeds;  but  as  yet  those  misdeeds  were  undefined,  and  it 
was  necessary  to  define  them.  The  Cardinal  rarely  resorted  to 
such  measures  except  when  the  case  was  urgent,  and  Saraci¬ 
nesca  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  would  be  hard  to  prove  any¬ 
thing  more  serious  against  Del  Eerice  than  the  crime  of  join¬ 
ing  in  the  silly  talk  of  Valdarno  and  his  set.  Giovanni  had 


310 


SARACINESCA. 


told  his  father  plainly  that  he  was  sure  Del  Ferice  derived  his 
living  from  some  illicit  source,  but  he  was  wholly  unable  to 
show  what  that  source  was.  Most  people  believed  the  story 
that  Del  Ferice  had  inherited  money  from  an  obscure  relative; 
most  people  thought  he  was  clever  and  astute,  but  were  so  far 
deceived  by  his  frank  and  unaffected  manner  as  to  feel  sure 
that  he  always  said  everything  that  came  into  his  head;  most 
people  are  so  much  delighted  when  an  unusually  clever  man 
deigns  to  talk  to  them,  that  they  cannot,  for  vanity’s  sake,  sus¬ 
pect  him  of  deceiving  them.  Saracinesca  did  not  doubt  that 
the  mere  statement  of  his  own  belief  in  regard  to  Del  Ferice 
would  have  considerable  weight  with  the  Cardinal,  for  he  was 
used  to  power  of  a  certain  kind,  and  was  accustomed  to  see  his 
judgment  treated  with  deference;  but  he  knew  the  Cardinal  to 
be  a  cautious  man,  hating  despotic  measures,  because  by  his  use 
of  them  he  had  made  himself  so  bitterly  hated — loth  always  to 
do  by  force  what  might  be  accomplished  by  skill,  and  in  the 
end  far  more  likely  to  attempt  the  conversion  of  Del  Ferice  to 
the  reactionary  view,  than  to  order  his  expulsion  because  his 
views  were  over-liberal.  Even  if  old  Saracinesca  had  possessed 
a  vastly  greater  diplomatic  instinct  than  he  did,  coupled  with 
an  unscrupulous  mendacity  which  he  certainly  had  not,  he 
■would  have  found  it  hard  to  persuade  the  Cardinal  against  his 
will;  but  Saracinesca  was,  of  all  men,  a  man  violent  in  action 
and  averse  to  reflection  before  or  after  the  fact.  That  he 
should  ultimately  be  revenged  upon  Del  Ferice  and  Donna 
Tullia  for  the  part  they  had  lately  played,  was  a  matter  which 
it  never  entered  his  head  to  doubt;  but  when  he  endeavoured 
to  find  means  which  should  persuade  the  Cardinal  to  assist  him, 
he  seemed  fenced  in  on  all  sides  by  impossibilities.  One  thing 
only  helped  him — namely,  the  conviction  that  if  the  statesman 
could  be  induced  to  examine  Del  Fence’s  conduct  seriously,  the 
latter  would  prove  to  be  not  only  an  enemy  to  the  State,  but  a 
bitter  enemy  to  the  Cardinal  himself. 

The  more  Saracinesca  thought  of  the  matter,  the  more  con¬ 
vinced  he  was  that  he  should  go  boldly  to  the  Cardinal  and 
state  his  belief  that  Del  Ferice  was  a  dangerous  traitor,  who 
ought  to  be  summarily  dealt  with.  If  the  Cardinal  argued  the 
case,  the  Prince  would  asseverate,  after  his  manner,  and  some 
sort  of  result  was  sure  to  follow.  As  he  thus  determined  upon 
his  course,  his  doubts  seemed  to  vanish,  as  they  generally  do  in 
the  mind  of  a  strong  man,  when  action  becomes  imminent,  and 
the  confidence  the  old  man  had  exhibited  to  his  son  very  soon 
became  genuine.  It  was  almost  intolerable  to  have  to  wait  so 
long,  however,  before  doing  anything.  Giovanni  and  he  had 
decided  to  allow  Del  Fence’s  marriage  to  take  place  before  pro¬ 
ducing  the  explosion,  in  order  the  more  certainly  to  strike  both 


SARACINESCA. 


311 


the  offenders ;  now  it  seemed  best  to  strike  at  once.  Supposing, 
he  argued  with  himself,  that  Donna  Tullia  and  her  husband 
chose  to  leave  Dome  for  Paris  the  day  after  their  wedding,  half 
the  triumph  would  be  lost;  for  half  the  triumph  was  to  consist 
in  Del  Ferice’s  being  imprisoned  for  a  spy  in  Rome,  whereas  if 
he  once  crossed  the  frontier,  he  could  at  most  be  forbidden  to 
return,  which  would  be  but  a  small  satisfaction  to  Saracinesca, 
or  to  Giovanni. 

A  week  passed  by,  and  the  gaiety  of  Carnival  was  again  at  its 
height;  and  again  a  week  elapsed,  and  Lent  was  come.  Saraci¬ 
nesca  went  everywhere  and  saw  everybody  as  usual,  and  then 
after  Ash-Wednesday  he  occasionally  showed  himself  at  some  of 
those  quiet  evening  receptions  which  his  son  so  much  detested. 
But  he  was  restless  and  discontented.  He  longed  to  begin  the 
fight,  and  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  it.  Like  Giovanni, 
he  was  strong  and  revengeful;  but  Giovanni  had  from  his 
mother  a  certain  slowness  of  temperament,  which  often  deterred 
him  from  action  just  long  enough  to  give  him  time  for  reflec¬ 
tion,  whereas  the  father,  when  roused,  and  he  was  roused  easily, 
loved  to  strike  at  once.  It  chanced  one  evening,  in  a  great 
house,  that  Saracinesca  came  upon  the  Cardinal  standing  alone 
in  an  outer  room.  He  was  on  his  way  into  the  reception;  but 
he  had  stopped,  attracted  by  a  beautiful  crystal  cup  of  old  work¬ 
manship,  which  stood,  among  other  objects  of  the  kind,  upon 
a  marble  table  in  one  of  the  drawing-rooms  through  which 
he  had  to  pass.  The  cup  itself,  of  deeply  carved  rock  crystal, 
was  set  in  chiselled  silver,  and  if  not  the  work  of  Cellini  him¬ 
self,  must  have  been  made  by  one  of  his  pupils.  Saracinesca 
stopped  by  the  great  man’s  side. 

“  Good  evening.  Eminence/’  he  said. 

“  Good  evening,  Prince,”  returned  the  Cardinal,  who  recog¬ 
nised  Saracinesca’s  voice  without  looking  up.  “Have  you  ever 
seen  this  marvellous  piece  of  work  ?  I  have  been  admiring  it 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.”  He  loved  all  objects  of  the  kind, 
and  understood  them  with  rare  knowledge. 

“  It  is  indeed  exceedingly  beautiful,”  answered  Saracinesca, 
who  longed  to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  Cardinal  Antonelli  upon  the  subject  nearest  to  his  heart. 

“Yes — yes,”  returned  the  Cardinal  rather  vaguely,  and  made 
as  though  he  would  go  on.  He  saw  from  Saracinesca’s  com¬ 
monplace  praise,  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  subject.  The  old 
Prince  saw  his  opportunity  slipping  from  him,  and  lost  his  head. 
He  did  not  recollect  that  he  could  see  the  Cardinal  alone 
whenever  he  pleased,  by  merely  asking  for  an  interview.  Fate 
had  thrust  the  Cardinal  in  his  path,  and  fate  was  responsible. 

“  If  your  Eminence  will  allow  me,  I  would  like  a  word  with 
you,”  he  said  suddenly. 


312 


SARACINESCA. 


“  As  many  as  you  please,”  answered  the  statesman,  blandly. 
“  Let  us  sit  down  in  that  corner — no  one  will  disturb  us  for  a 
while.” 

He  seemed  unusually  affable,  as  he  sat  himself  down  by 
Saracinesca’s  side,  gathering  the  skirt  of  his  scarlet  mantle 
across  his  knee,  and  folding  his  delicate  hands  together  in  an 
attitude  of  restful  attention. 

“  You  know,  I  daresay,  a  certain  Del  Ferice,  Eminence  ?  ” 
began  the  Prince. 

“  Very  well — the  deus  ex  machind  who  has  appeared  to  carry 
off  Donna  Tullia  Mayer.  Yes,  I  know  him.” 

“  Precisely,  and  they  will  match  very  well  together ;  the 
world  cannot  help  applauding  the  union  of  the  flesh  and  the 
devil.” 

The  Cardinal  smiled. 

“  The  metaphor  is  apt,”  he  said;  "but  what  about  them  ?” 

“  I  will  tell  you  in  two  words,”  replied  Saracinesca.  “  Del 
Ferice  is  a  scoundrel  of  the  first  water - ” 

"  A  jewel  among  scoundrels,”  interrupted  the  Cardinal,  “  for 
being  a  scoundrel  he  is  yet  harmless — a  stage  villain.” 

“  I  believe  your  Eminence  is  deceived  in  him.” 

“  That  may  easily  be,”  answered  the  statesman.  “  I  am  much 
more  often  deceived  than  people  imagine.”  He  spoke  very 
mildly,  but  his  small  black  eyes  turned  keenly  upon  Saracinesca. 
“  What  has  he  been  doing  ?”  he  asked,  after  a  short  pause. 

“  He  has  been  trying  to  do  a  great  deal  of  harm  to  my  son 
and  to  my  son’s  wife.  I  suspect  him  strongly  of  doing  harm 
to  you.” 

Whether  Saracinesca  was  strictly  honest  in  saying  “  you  ”  to 
the  Cardinal,  when  he  meant  the  whole  State  as  represented  by 
the  prime  minister,  is  a  matter  not  easily  decided.  There  is  a 
Latin  saying,  to  the  effect  that  a  man  who  is  feared  by  many 
should  himself  fear  many,  and  the  saying  is  true.  The  Cardi¬ 
nal  was  personally  a  brave  man ;  but  he  knew  his  danger,  and 
the  memory  of  the  murdered  Eossi  was  fresh  in  his  mind. 
Nevertheless,  he  smiled  blandly  as  he  answered — 

“  That  is  rather  vague,  my  friend.  How  is  he  doing  me 
harm,  if  I  may  ask  ?  ” 

“  I  argue  in  this  way,”  returned  Saracinesca,  thus  pressed. 
“  The  fellow  found  a  most  ingenious  way  of  attacking  my  son 
— he  searched  the  whole  country  till  he  found  that  a  man 
called  Giovanni  Saracinesca  had  been  married  some  time  ago 
in  Aquila.  He  copied  the  certificates,  and  produced  them 
as  pretended  proof  that  my  son  was  already  married.  If 
I  had  not  found  the  man  myself,  there  would  have  been 
trouble.  Now  besides  this,  Del  Ferice  is  known  to  hold  Lib¬ 
eral  views - ” 


SARACINESCA. 


313 


“  Of  the  feeblest  kind,”  interrupted  the  statesman,  who 
nevertheless  became  very  grave. 

“  Those  he  exhibits  are  of  the  feeblest  kind,  and  he  takes  no 
trouble  to  hide  them.  But  a  fellow  so  ingenious  as  to  imagine 
the  scheme  he  practised  against  us  is  not  a  fool.” 

“  I  understand,  my  good  friend,”  said  the  Cardinal.  “  You 
have  been  injured  by  this  fellow,  and  you  would  like  me  to 
revenge  the  injury  by  locking  him  up.  Is  that  it  ?  ” 

“  Precisely,”  answered  Saracinesca,  laughing  at  his  own  sim¬ 
plicity.  “  I  might  as  well  have  said  so  from  the  first.” 

“  Much  better.  You  would  make  a  poor  diplomatist,  Prince. 
But  what  in  the  world  shall  I  gain  by  revenging  your  wrongs 
upon  that  creature  ?  ” 

“Nothing — unless  when  you  have  taken  the  trouble  to  ex¬ 
amine  his  conduct,  you  find  that  he  is  really  dangerous.  In 
that  case  your  Eminence  will  be  obliged  to  look  to  your  own 
safety.  If  you  find  him  innocent,  you  will  let  him  go.” 

“  And  in  that  case,  what  will  you  do  ?  ”  asked  the  Cardinal 
with  a  smile. 

“  I  will  cut  his  throat,”  answered  Saracinesca,  unmoved. 

“  Murder  him  ?  ” 

“  No — call  him  out  and  kill  him  like  a  gentleman,  which  is  a 
great  deal  better  than  he  deserves.” 

“  I  have  no  doubt  you  would,”  said  the  Cardinal,  gravely. 
“  I  think  your  proposition  reasonable,  however.  If  this  man  is 
really  dangerous,  I  will  look  to  him  myself.  But  I  must  really 
beg  you  not  to  do  anything  rash.  I  have  determined  that  this 
duelling  shall  stop,  and  I  warn  you  that  neither  you  nor  any 
one  else  will  escape  imprisonment  if  you  are  involved  in  any 
more  of  these  personal  encounters.” 

Saracinesca  suppressed  a  smile  at  the  Cardinal’s  threat;  but 
he  perceived  that  he  had  gained  his  point,  and  was  pleased 
accordingly.  He  had,  he  felt  sure,  sown  in  the  statesman’s 
mind  a  germ  of  suspicion  which  would  before  long  bring  forth 
fruit.  In  those  days  danger  was  plentiful,  and  people  could 
not  afford  to  overlook  it,  no  matter  in  what  form  it  presented 
itself,  least  of  all  such  people  as  the  Cardinal  himself,  who, 
while  sustaining  an  unequal  combat  against  superior  forces 
outside  the  State,  felt  that  his  every  step  was  encompassed  by 
perils  from  within.  That  he  had  long  despised  Del  Ferice  as 
an  idle  chatterer  did  not  prevent  him  from  understanding  that 
he  might  have  been  deceived,  as  Saracinesca  suggested.  He 
had  caused  Ugo  to  be  watched,  it  is  true,  but  only  from  time 
to  time,  and  by  men  whose  only  duty  was  to  follow  him  and  to 
see  whether  he  frequented  suspicious  society.  The  little  nest 
of  talkers  at  Gouache’s  studio  in  the  Via  San  Basilio  was  soon 
discovered,  and  proved  to  be  harmless  enough.  Del  Ferice  was 


314 


SARACINESCA. 


then  allowed  to  go  on  his  way  unobserved.  But  the  half-dozen 
words  in  which  Saracinesca  had  described  Ugo’s  scheme  for 
hindering  Giovanni’s  marriage  had  set  the  Cardinal  thinking, 
and  the  Cardinal  seldom  wasted  time  in  thinking  in  vain.  His 
interview  with  Saracinesca  ended  very  soon,  and  the  Prince 
and  the  statesman  entered  the  crowded  drawing-room  and 
mixed  in  the  throng.  It  was  long  before  they  met  again  in 
private. 

The  Cardinal  on  the  following  day  gave  orders  that  Del 
Ferice’s  letters  were  to  be  stopped — by  no  means  an  uncommon 
proceeding  in  those  times,  nor  so  rare  in  our  own  day  as  is 
supposed.  The  post-office  was  then  in  the  hands  of  a  private 
individual  so  far  as  all  management  was  concerned,  and  the 
Cardinal’s  word  was  law.  Del  Ferice’s  letters  were  regularly 
opened  and  examined. 

The  first  thing  that  was  discovered  was  that  they  frequently 
contained  money,  generally  in  the  shape  of  small  drafts  on 
London  signed  by  a  Florentine  banker,  and  that  the  envelopes 
which  contained  money  never  contained  anything  else.  They 
were  all  posted  in  Florence.  With  regard  to  his  letters,  they 
appeared  to  be  very  innocent  communications  from  all  sorts  of 
people,  rarely  referring  to  politics,  and  then  only  in  the  most 
general  terms.  If  Del  Ferice  had  expected  to  have  his  corre¬ 
spondence  examined,  he  could  not  have  arranged  matters  better 
for  his  own  safety.  To  trace  the  drafts  to  the  person  who  sent 
them  was  not  an  easy  business;  it  was  impossible  to  introduce 
a  spy  into  the  banking-house  in  Florence,  and  among  the  many 
drafts  daily  bought  and  sold,  it  was  almost  impossible  to  iden¬ 
tify,  without  the  aid  of  the  banker’s  books,  the  person  who 
chanced  to  buy  any  particular  one.  The  addresses  were,  it  is 
true,  uniformly  written  by  the  same  hand ;  but  the  writing  was 
in  no  way  peculiar,  and  was  certainly  not  that  of  any  promi¬ 
nent  person  whose  autograph  the  Cardinal  possessed. 

The  next  step  was  to  get  possession  of  some  letter  written  by 
Del  Ferice  himself,  and,  if  possible,  to  intercept  everything  he 
wrote.  But  although  the  letters  containing  the  drafts  were 
regularly  opened,  and,  after  having  been  examined  and  sealed 
again,  were  regularly  transmitted  through  the  post-office  to 
Ugo’s  address,  the  expert  persons  set  to  catch  the  letters  he 
himself  wrote  were  obliged  to  own,  after  three  weeks’  careful 
watching,  that  he  never  seemed  to  write  any  letters  at  all,  and 
that  he  certainly  never  posted  any.  They  acknowledged  their 
failure  to  the  Cardinal  with  timid  anxiety,  expecting  to  be  rep¬ 
rimanded  for  their  carelessness.  But  the  Cardinal  merely  told 
them  not  to  relax  their  attention,  and  dismissed  them  with  a 
bland  smile.  He  knew,  now,  that  he  was  on  the  track  of  mis¬ 
chief;  for  a  man  who  never  writes  any  letters  at  all,  while  he 


SARACINESCA. 


315 


receives  many,  might  reasonably  be  suspected  of  having  a  secret 
post-office  of  his  own.  For  some  days  Del  Ferice’s  movements 
were  narrowly  watched,  but  with  no  result  whatever.  Then 
the  Cardinal  sent  for  the  police  register  of  the  district  where 
Del  Ferice  lived,  and  in  which  the  name,  nationality,  and  resi¬ 
dence  of  every  individual  in  the  “Rione”  or  quarter  were  care¬ 
fully  inscribed,  as  they  still  are. 

Running  his  eye  down  the  list,  the  Cardinal  came  upon  the 
name  of  “  Temistocle  Fattorusso,  of  Naples,  servant  to  Ugo  dei 
Conti  del  Ferice  :  ”  an  idea  struck  him. 

“  His  servant  is  a  Neapolitan,”  he  reflected.  “  He  probably 
sends  his  letters  by  way  of  Naples.” 

Accordingly  Temistocle  was  watched  instead  of  his  master. 
It  was  found  that  he  frequented  the  society  of  other  Neapoli¬ 
tans,  and  especially  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  going  from  time 
to  time  to  the  Ripa  Grande,  the  port  of  the  Tiber,  where  he 
seemed  to  have  numerous  acquaintances  among  the  Neapolitan 
boatmen  who  constantly  came  up  the  coast  in  their  “martin- 
gane  ” — heavy,  sea-going,  lateen -rigged  vessels,  bringing  cargoes 
of  oranges  and  lemons  to  the  Roman  market.  The  mystery 
was  now  solved.  One  day  Temistocle  was  actually  seen  giving 
a  letter  into  the  hands  of  li  huge  fellow  in  a  red  woollen  cap. 
The  sbirro  who  saw  him  do  it  marked  the  sailor  and  his  vessel, 
and  never  lost  sight  of  him  till  he  hoisted  his  jib  and  floated 
away  down  stream.  Then  the  spy  took  horse  and  galloped 
down  to  Fiumicino,  where  he  waited  for  the  little  vessel,  boarded 
her  from  a  boat,  escorted  by  a  couple  of  gendarmes,  and  had  no 
difficulty  in  taking  the  letter  from  the  terrified  seaman,  who 
was  glad  enough  to  escape  without  detention.  During  the  next 
fortnight  several  letters  were  stopped  in  this  way,  carried  by 
different  bailors,  and  the  whole  correspondence  went  straight  to 
the  Cardinal.  It  was  not  often  that  he  troubled  himself  to 
play  the  detective  in  person,  but  when  he  did  so,  he  was  not 
ejasily  baffled.  And  now  he  observed  that  about  a  week  after 
the  interception  of  the  first  letter  the  small  drafts  which  used 
to  come  so  frequently  to  Del  Ferice’s  address  from  Florence 
suddenly  ceased,  proving  beyond  a  doubt  that  each  letter  was 
paid  for  according  to  its  value  so  soon  as  it  was  received. 

With  regard  to  the  contents  of  these  epistles  little  need  be 
said.  So  sure  was  Del  Ferice  of  his  means  of  transmission  that 
he  did  not  even  use  a  cipher,  though  he,  of  course,  never  signed 
any  of  his  writings.  The  matter  was  invariably  a  detailed 
chronicle  of  Roman  sayings  and  doings,  a  record,  as  minute  as 
Del  Ferice  could  make  it,  of  everything  that  took  place,  and 
even  the  Cardinal  himself  was  astonished  at  the  accuracy  of  the 
information  thus  conveyed.  His  own  appearances  in  public — 
the  names  of  those  with  whom  he  talked — even  fragments  of 


316 


SARACINESCA. 


his  conversation — were  given  with  annoying  exactness.  The 
statesman  learned  with  infinite  disgust  that  he  had  for  some 
time  past  been  subjected  to  a  system  of  espionage  at  least  as 
complete  as  any  of  his  own  invention;  and,  what  was  still  more 
annoying  to  his  vanity,  the  spy  was  the  man  of  all  others  whom 
he  had  most  despised,  calling  him  harmless  and  weak,  because 
he  cunningly  affected  weakness.  Where  or  how  Del  Ferice 
procured  so  much  information  the  Cardinal  cared  little  enough, 
for  he  determined  there  and 'then  that  he  should  procure  no 
more.  That  there  were  other  traitors  in  the  camp  was  more 
than  likely,  and  that  they  had  aided  Del  Ferice  with  their  coun¬ 
sels;  but  though  by  prolonging  the  situation  it  might  be  possi¬ 
ble  to  track  them  down,  such  delay  would  be  valuable  to  ene¬ 
mies  abroad.  Moreover,  if  Del  Ferice  began  to  find  out,  as  he 
soon  must,  that  his  private  correspondence  was  being  over¬ 
hauled  at  the  Vatican,  he  was  not  a  man  to  hesitate  about  at¬ 
tempting  his  escape;  and  he  would  certainly  not  be  an  easy 
man  to  catch,  if  he  could  once  succeed  in  putting  a  few  miles 
of  Campagna  between  himself  and  Rome.  There  was  no  know¬ 
ing  what  disguise  he  might  not  find  in  which  to  slip  over  the 
frontier;  and  indeed,  as  he  afterwards  proved,  he  was  well  pre¬ 
pared  for  such  an  emergency. 

The  Cardinal  did  not  hesitate.  He  had  just  received  the 
fourth  letter,  and  if  he  waited  any  longer  Del  Ferice  would 
take  alarm,  and  slip  through  his  fingers.  He  wrote  with  his 
own  hand  a  note  to  the  chief  of  police,  ordering  the  immediate 
arrest  of  Ugo  dei  Conti  del  Ferice,  with  instructions  that  he 
should  be  taken  in  his  own  house,  without  any  publicity,  and 
conveyed  in  a  private  carriage  to  the  Sant*  Uffizio  by  men  in 
plain  clothes.  It  was  six  o’clock  in  the  evening  when  he  wrote 
the  order,  and  delivered  it  to  his  private  servant  to  be  taken  to 
its  destination.  The  man  lost  no  time,  and  within  twenty 
minutes  the  chief  of  police  was  in  possession  of  his  orders, 
which  he  hastened  to  execute  with  all  possible  speed.  Before 
seven  o’clock  two  respectable-looking  citizens  were  seated  in  the 
chief’s  own  carriage,  driving  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  Del 
Ferice’s  house.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  the  man  who  had 
caused  so  much  trouble  would  be  safely  lodged  in  the  prisons 
of  the  Holy  Office,  to  be  judged  for  his  sins  as  a  political  spy. 
In  a  fortnight  he  was  to  have  been  married  to  Donna  Tullia 
Mayer, — and  her  trousseau  had  just  arrived  from  Paris. 

It  can  hardly  be  said  that  the  Cardinal’s  conduct  was  unjusti¬ 
fiable,  though  many  ,  will  say  that  Del  Ferice’s  secret  doings 
were  easily  defensible  on  the  ground  of  his  patriotism.  Cardi¬ 
nal  Antonelli  had  precisely  defined  the  situation  in  his  talk 
with  Anastase  Gouache  by  saying  that  the  temporal  power  was 
driven  to  bay.  To  all  appearances  Europe  was  at  peace,  but 


SARACINESCA. 


317 


as  a  matter  of  fact  the  peace  was  but  an  armed  neutrality. 
An  amount  of  interest  was  concentrated  upon  the  situation  of 
the  Papal  States  which  has  rarely  been  excited  by  events  of 
much  greater  apparent  importance  than  the  occupation  of  a 
small  principality  by  foreign  troops.  All  Europe  was  arming. 
In  a  few  months  Austria  was  to  sustain  one  of  the  most  sudden 
and  overwhelming  defeats  recorded  in  military  history.  In  a 
few  years  the  greatest  military  power  in  the  world  was  to  be 
overtaken  by  an  even  more  appalling  disaster.  And  these 
events,  then  close  at  hand,  were  to  deal  the  death-blow  to  papal 
independence.  The  papacy  was  driven  to  bay,  and  those  to 
whom  the  last  defence  was  confided  were  certainly  justified  in 
employing  every  means  in  their  power  for  strengthening  their 
position.  That  Rome  herself  was  riddled  with  rotten  conspi¬ 
racies,  and  turned  into  a  hunting-ground  for  political  spies, 
while  the  support  she  received  from  Louis  Napoleon  had  been 
already  partially  withdrawn,  proves  only  how  hard  was  the  task 
of  that  man  who,  against  such  odds,  maintained  so  gallant  a 
fight.  It  is  no  wonder  that  he  hunted  down  spies,  and  signed 
orders  forcing  suspicious  characters  to  leave  the  city  at  a  day’s 
notice;  for  the  city  was  practically  in  a  state  of  siege,  and  any 
relaxation  of  the  iron  discipline  by  which  the  great  Cardinal 
governed  would  at  any  moment  in  those  twenty  years  have 
proved  disastrous.  He  was  hated  and  feared;  more  than  once 
he  was  in  imminent  danger  of  his  life,  but  he  did  his  duty  in 
his  post.  Had  his  authority  fallen,  it  is  impossible  to  say  what 
evil  might  have  ensued  to  the  city  and  its  inhabitants — evils 
.vastly  more  to  be  feared  than  the  entrance  of  an  orderly  Italian 
army  through  the  Porta  Pia.  For  the  recollections  of  Count 
Rossi’s  murder,  and  of  the  short  and  lawless  Republic  of  1848, 
were  fresh  in  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  before  they  had 
faded  there  were  dangerous  rumours  of  a  rising  even  less  truly 
Republican  in  theory,  and  far  more  fatal  in  the  practical  social 
anarchy  which  must  have  resulted  from  its  success.  Giuseppe 
Mazzini  had  survived  his  arch-enemy,  the  great  Cavour,  and  his 
influence  was  incalculable. 

But  my  business  is  not  to  write  the  history  of  those  uncertain 
days,  though  no  one  who  considers  the  social  life  of  Rome, 
either  then  or  now,  can  afford  to  overlook  the  influence  of 
political  events  upon  the  everyday  doings  of  men  and  women. 
We  must  follow  the  private  carriage  containing  the  two  respect¬ 
able  citizens  who  were  on  their  way  to  Del  Ferice’s  house. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Now  it  chanced  that  Del  Ferice  was  not  at  home  at  the  hour 
when  the  carriage  containing  the  detectives  drew  up  at  his 


318 


SARACINESCA. 


door.  Indeed  he  was  rarely  to  be  found  at  that  time,  for  when 
he  was  not  engaged  elsewhere,  he  dined  with  Donna  Tullia  and 
her  old  countess,  accompanying  them  afterwards  to  any  of  the 
quiet  Lenten  receptions  to  which  they  desired  to  go.  Temistocle 
was  also  out,  for  it  was  his  hour  for  supper,  a  meal  which  he 
generally  ate  in  a  small  osteria  opposite  his  master's  lodging. 
There  he  sat  now,  finishing  his  dish  of  beans  and  oil,  and 
debating  whether  he  should  indulge  himself  in  another  mezza 
foglietta  of  his  favourite  white  wine.  He  was  installed  upon 
the  wooden  bench  against  the  wall,  behind  the  narrow  table  on 
which  was  spread  a  dirty  napkin  with  the  remains  of  his  unctu¬ 
ous  meal.  The  light  from  the  solitary  oil-lamp  that  hung  from 
the  black  ceiling  was  not  brilliant,  and  he  could  see  well  enough 
through  the  panes  of  the  glass  door  that  the  carriage  which  had 
just  stopped  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  was  not  a  cab. 
Suspecting  that  some  one  had  called  at  that  unusual  hour  in 
search  of  his  master,  he  rose  from  his  seat  and  went  out. 

He  stood  looking  at  the  carriage.  It  did  not  please  him.  It 
had  that  peculiar  look  which  used  to  mark  the  equipages  of  the 
Vatican,  and  which  to  this  day  distinguishes  them  from  all 
others  in  the  eyes  of  a  born  Roman.  The  vehicle  was  of  rather 
antiquated  shape,  the  horses  were  black,  the  coachman  wore  a 
plain  black  coat,  with  a  somewhat  old-fashioned  hat;  withal, 
the  turnout  was  respectable  enough,  and  well  kept.  But  it 
did  not  please  Temistocle.  Drawing  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  he 
passed  behind  it,  and  having  ascertained  that  the  occupants,  if 
there  had  been  any,  had  already  entered  the  house,  he  himself 
went  in.  The  narrow  staircase  was  dimly  lighted  by  small  oil- 
lamps.  Temistocle  ascended  the  steps  on  tiptoe,  for  he  could 
already  hear  the  men  ringing  the  bell,  and  talking  together  in 
a  low  voice.  The  Neapolitan  crept  nearer.  Again  and  again 
the  bell  was  rung,  and  the  men  began  to  grow  impatient. 

“He  has  escaped,"  said  one  angrily. 

“  Perhaps — or  he  has  gone  out  to  dinner — much  more  likely." 

“We  had  better  go  away  and  come  later,"  suggested  the  first. 

“He  is  sure  to  come  home.  We  had  better  wait.  The 
orders  are  to  take  him  in  his  lodgings." 

“We  might  go  into  the  osteria  opposite  and  drink  a  foglietta ." 

“No,"  said  the  other, who  seemed  to  be  the  one  in  authority. 
“We  must  wait  here,  if  we  wait  till  midnight.  Those  are  the 
orders." 

The  second  detective  grumbled  something  not  clearly  audi¬ 
ble,  and  silence  ensued.  But  Temistocle  had  heard  quite 
enough.  He  was  a  quick-witted  fellow,  as  has  been  seen,  much 
more  anxious  for  his  own  interests  than  for  his  master's,  though 
he  had  hitherto  found  it  easy  to  consult  both.  Indeed,  in  a 
certain  way  he  was  faithful  to  Del  Ferice,  and  admired  him  as 


SAKACINESCA. 


319 


a  soldier  admires  his  general.  The  resolution  he  now  formed 
did  honour  to  his  loyalty  to  Ugo  and  to  his  thievish  instincts. 
He  determined  to  save  his  master  if  he  could,  and  to  rob  him 
at  his  leisure  afterwards.  If  Del  Ferice  failed  to  escape,  he 
would  probably  reward  Temistocle  for  having  done  his  best  to 
help  him;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  he  got  away,  Temistocle  had 
the  key  of  his  lodgings,  and  would  help  himself.  But  there 
was  one  difficulty  in  the  way.  Del  Ferice  was  in  evening  dress 
at  the  house  of  Donna  Tullia.  In  such  a  costume  he  would 
have  no  chance  of  passing  the  gates,  which  in  those  days  were 
closed  and  guarded  all  night.  Del  Ferice  was  a  cautious  man, 
and,  like  many  another  in  those  days,  kept  in  his  rooms  a  couple 
of  disguises  which  might  serve  if  he  was  hard  pressed.  His 
ready  money  he  always  carried  with  him,  because  he  frequently 
went  into  the  club  before  coming  home,  and  played  a  game  of 
ecarte,  in  which  he  was  usually  lucky.  The  question  was  how  to 
enter  the  lodgings,  to  get  possession  of  the  necessary  clothes,  and 
to  go  out  again,  without  exciting  the  suspicions  of  the  detectives. 

Temistocle’s  mind  was  soon  made  up.  He  crept  softly  down 
the  stairs,  so  as  not  to  appear  to  have  been  too  near,  and  then, 
making  as  much  noise  as  he  could,  ascended  boldly,  drawing 
the  key  of  the  lodgings  from  his  pocket  as  he  reached  the  land¬ 
ing  where  the  two  men  stood  under  the  little  oil-lamp. 

“  Buona  sera,  signori,”  he  said,  politely,  thrusting  the  key 
into  the  lock  without  hesitation.  “  Did  you  wish  to  see  the 
Conte  del  Ferice  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  answered  the  elder  man,  affecting  an  urbane  manner. 
“  Is  the  Count  at  home  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  think  so,”  returned  the  Neapolitan.  “  But  I  will 
see.  Come  in,  gentlemen.  He  will  not  be  long — sempre  verso 
quest’ora — he  always  comes  home  about  this  time.” 

“Thank  you,”  said  the  detective.  “If  you  will  allow  us  to 
wait - ” 

“  Alt ro — what?  Should  I  leave  the  padrone’s  friends  on  the 
stairs  ?  Come  in,  gentlemen— sit  down.  It  is  dark.  I  will 
light  the  lamp.”  '  And  striking  a  match,  Temistocle  lit  a  couple 
of  candles  and  placed  them  upon  the  table  of  the  small  sitting- 
room.  The  two  men  sat  down,  holding  their  hats  upon  their 
knees. 

“  If  you  will  excuse  me,”  said  Temistocle,  “  I  will  go  and 
make  the  signore’s  coffee.  He  dines  at  the  restaurant,  and 
always  comes  home  for  his  coffee.  Perhaps  the  signori  will 
also  take  a  cup  ?  It  is  the  same  to  make  three  as  one.” 

But  the  men  thanked  Temistocle,  and  said  they  wanted  none, 
which  was  just  as  well,  since  Temistocle  had  no  idea  of  giving 
them  any.  He  retired,  however,  to  the  small  kitchen  which 
belongs  to  every  Koman  lodging,  and  made  a  great  clattering 


320 


SAKACINESCA. 


with  the  coffee-pot.  Presently  he  slipped  into  Del  Fence’s 
bedroom,  and  extracted  from  a  dark  corner  a  shabby  black  bag, 
which  he  took  back  with  him  into  the  kitchen.  From  the 
kitchen  window  ran  the  usual  iron  wire  to  the  well  in  the  small 
court,  bearing  an  iron  traveller  with  a  rope  for  drawing  water. 
Temistocle,  clattering  loudly,  hooked  the  bag  to  the  traveller 
and  let  it  run  down  noisily;  then  he  tied  the  rope  and  went  out. 
He  had  carefully  closed  the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  but  he 
had  been  careful  to  leave  the  door  which  opened  upon  the  stairs 
unlatched.  He  crept  noiselessly  out,  and  leaving  the  door  still 
open,  rushed  down-stairs,  turned  into  the  little  court,  unhooked 
his  bag  from  the  rope,  and  taking  it  in  his  hand,  passed  quietly 
out  into  the  street.  The  coachman  was  dozing  upon  the  box 
of  the  carriage  which  still  waited  before  the  door,  and  would 
not  have  noticed  Temistocle  had  he  been  awake.  In  a  moment 
more  the  Neapolitan  was  beyond  pursuit.  In  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna  he  hailed  a  cab  and  drove  rapidly  to  Donna  Tullia’s 
house,  where  he  paid  the  man  and  sent  him  away.  The  ser¬ 
vants  knew  him  well  enough,  for  scarcely  a  day  passed  without 
his  bringing  some  note  or  message  from  his  master  to  Madame 
Mayer.  He  sent  in  to  say  that  he  must  speak  to  his  master  on 
business.  Del  Ferice  came  out  hastily  in  considerable  agita¬ 
tion,  which  was  by  no  means  diminished  by  the  sight  of  the 
well-known  shabby  black  bag. 

Temistocle  glanced  round  the  hall  to  see  that  they  were  alone. 

“  The  forza — the  police,”  he  whispered,  “  are  in  the  house, 
Eccelenza.  Here  is  the  bag.  Save  yourself,  for  the  love  of 
heaven !  ” 

Del  Ferice  turned  ghastly  pale,  and  his  face  twitched  nervously. 

“  But - ”  he  began,  and  then  staggering  back  leaned 

against  the  wall. 

“  Quick — fly!”  urged  Temistocle,  shaking  him  roughly  by 
the  arm.  “  It  is  the  Holy  Office — you  have  time.  I  told  them 
you  would  be  back,  and  they  are  waiting  quietly — they  will 
wait  all  night.  Here  is  your  overcoat,”  he  added,  almost  forc¬ 
ing  his  master  into  the  garment — “and  your  hat — here!  Come 
along,  there  is  no  time  to  lose.  I  will  take  you  to  a  place 
where  you  can  dress.” 

Del  Ferice  submitted  almost  blindly.  By  especial  good  for¬ 
tune  the  footman  did  not  come  out  into  the  hall.  Donna 
Tullia  and  her  guests  had  finished  dinner,  and  the  servants  had 
retired  to  theirs;  indeed  the  footman  had  complained  to  Te¬ 
mistocle  of  being  called  away  from  his  meal  to  open  the  door. 
The  Neapolitan  pushed  his  master  out  upon  the  stairs,  urging 
him  to  use  all  speed.  As  the  two  men  hurried  along  the  dark 
street  they  conversed  in  low  tones.  Del  Ferice  was  trembling 
in  every  joint. 


SARACINESCA. 


321 


“  But  Donna  Tullia,”  he  almost  whined.  “  I  cannot  leave 
her  so — she  must  know - ” 

“Save  your  own  skin  from  the  Holy  Office,  master,”  an¬ 
swered  Temistocle,  dragging  him  along  as  fast  as  he  could. 
“  I  will  go  back  and  tell  your  lady,  never  fear.  She  will  leave 
Rome  to-morrow.  Of  course  you  will  go  to  Naples.  She  will 
follow  you.  She  will  be  there  before  you.” 

Del  Ferice  mumbled  an  unintelligible  answer.  His  teeth 
were  chattering  with  cold  and  fear;  but  as  he  began  to  realise 
his  extreme  peril,  terror  lent  wings  to  his  heels,  and  he  almost 
outstripped  the  nimble  Temistocle  in  the  race  for  safety. 
They  reached  at  last  the  ruined  part  of  the  city  near  the  Porta 
Maggiore,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  deep  archway  where  the 
road  branches  to  the  right  towards  Santa  Croce  in  Gerusa- 
lemme,  Temistocle  halted. 

“  Here,”  he  said,  shortly.  Del  Ferice  said  never  a  word, 
but  began  to  undress  himself  in  the  dark.  It  was  a  gloomy 
and  lowering  night,  the  roads  were  muddy,  and  from  time  to 
time  a  few  drops  of  cold  rain  fell  silently,  portending  a  coming 
storm.  In  a  few  moments  the  transformation  was  complete, 
and  Del  Ferice  stood  by  his  servant's  side  in  the  shabby  brown 
cowl  and  rope-girdle  of  a  Capuchin  monk. 

“  Now  comes  the  hard  part,”  said  Temistocle,  producing  a 
razor  and  a  pair  of  scissors  from  the  bottom  of  the  bag.  Del 
Ferice  had  too  often  contemplated  the  possibility  of  flight  to 
have  omitted  so  important  a  detail. 

“You  cannot  see — you  will  cut  my  throat,”  he  murmured 
plaintively. 

But  the  fellow  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  Retiring  deeper 
into  the  recess  of  the  arch,  he  lit  a  cigar,  and  holding  it  between 
his  teeth,  puffed  violently  at  it,  producing  a  feeble  light  by  which 
he  could  just  see  his  master's  face.  He  was  in  the  habit  of 
shaving  him,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  removing  the  fair  mous¬ 
tache  from  his  upper  lip.  Then,  making  him  hold  his  head 
down,  and  puffing  harder  than  ever,  he  cropped  his  thin  hair,  and 
managed  to  make  a  tolerably  respectable  tonsure.  But  the  whole 
operation  had  consumed  half  an  hour  at  the  least,  and  Del  Ferice 
was  trembling  still.  Temistocle  thrust  the  clothes  into  his  bag. 

“  My  watch !  ”  objected  the  unfortunate  man,  “  and  my  pearl 
studs — give  them  to  me — what?  You  villain!  you  thief! 


“ No  chiacchiere ,  no  talk,  padrone”  interrupted  Temistocle, 
snapping  the  lock  of  the  bag.  “If  you  chance  to  be  searched, 
it  would  ill  become  a  mendicant  friar  to  be  carrying  gold 
watches  and  pearl  studs.  I  will  give  them  to  Donna  Tullia  this 
very  evening.  You  have  money — you  can  say  that  you  are 
taking  that  to  your  convent.” 


322 


SARACINESCA. 


“  Swear  to  give  the  watch  to  Donna  Tullia,”  said  Del  Ferice. 
Whereupon  Temistocle  swore  a  terrible  oath,  which,  he  did  not 
fail  to  break,  of  course.  But  his  master  had  to  be  satisfied,  and 
when  all  was  completed  the  two  parted  company. 

“  X  will  ask  Donna  Tullia  to  take  me  to  Naples  on  her  pass¬ 
port/’  said  the  Neapolitan. 

“  Take  care  of  my  things,  Temistocle.  Burn  all  the  papers 
if  you  can — though  I  suppose  the  sbirri  have  got  them  by  this 
time.  Bring  my  clothes — if  you  steal  anything,  remember  there 
are  knives  in  Rome,  and  I  know  where  to  write  to  have  them 
used.”  Whereat  Temistocle  broke  into  a  torrent  of  protesta¬ 
tions.  How  could  his  master  think  that,  after  saving  him  at 
such  risk,  his  faithful  servant  would  plunder  him? 

“Well,”  said  Del  Ferice,  thoughtfully,  “you  are  a  great 
scoundrel,  you  know.  But  you  have  saved  me,  as  you  say. 
There  is  a  scudo  for  you.” 

Temistocle  never  refused  anything.  He  took  the  coin,  kissed 
his  master’s  hand  as  a  final  exhibition  of  servility,  and  turned 
back  towards  the  city  without  another  word.  Del  Ferice  shud¬ 
dered,  and  drew  his  heavy  cowl  over  his  head  as  he  began  to 
walk  quickly  towards  the  Porta  Maggiore.  Then  he  took  the 
inside  road,  skirting  the  walls  through  the  mud  to  the  Porta 
San  Lorenzo.  He  was  perfectly  safe  in  his  disguise.  He  had 
dined  abundantly,  he  had  money  in  his  pocket,  and  he  had 
escaped  the  clutches  of  the  Holy  Office.  A  barefooted  friar 
might  walk  for  days  unchallenged  through  the  Roman  Cam- 
pagna  and  the  neighbouring  hills,  and  it  was  not  far  to  the 
south-eastern  frontier.  He  did  not  know  the  way  beyond  Tivoli, 
but  he  could  inquire  without  exciting  the  least  suspicion.  There 
are  few  disguises  more  complete  than  the  garb  of  a  Capuchin 
monk,  and  Del  Ferice  had  long  contemplated  playing  the  part, 
for  it  was  one  which  eminently  suited  him.  His  face,  much 
thinner  now  than  formerly,  was  yet  naturally  round,  and  without 
his  moustache  would  certainly  pass  for  a  harmless  clerical  visage. 
He  had  received  an  excellent  education,  and  knew  vastly  more 
Latin  than  the  majority  of  mendicant  monks.  As  a  good  Roman 
he  was  well  acquainted  with  every  convent  in  the  city,  and  knew 
the  names  of  all  the  chief  dignitaries  of  the  Capuchin  order. 
When  a  lad  he  had  frequently  served  at  Mass,  and  was 
acquainted  with  most  of  the  ordinary  details  of  monastic  life. 
The  worst  that  could  happen  to  him  might  be  to  be  called  upon 
in  the  course  of  his  travels  to  hear  the  dying  confession  of  some 
poor  wretch  who  had  been  stabbed  after  a  game  of  mora.  His 
case  was  altogether  not  so  bad  as  might  seem,  considering  the 
far  greater  evils  he  had  escaped. 

At  the  Porta  San  Lorenzo  the  gates  were  closed  as  usual,  but 
the  dozing  watchman  let  Del  Ferice  out  of  the  small  door 


SARACINESCA. 


323 


without  remark.  Any  one  might  leave  the  city,  though  it 
required  a  pass  to  gain  admittance  during  the  night.  The 
heavily-ironed  oak  clanged  behind  the  fugitive,  and  he  breathed 
more  freely  as  he  stepped  upon  the  road  to  Tivoli.  In  an  hour 
he  had  crossed  the  Ponte  Mammolo,  shuddering  as  he  looked 
down  through  the  deep  gloom  at  the  white  foam  of  the  Teve- 
rone,  swollen  with  the  winter  rains.  But  the  fear  of  the  Holy 
Office  was  behind  him,  and  he  hurried  on  his  lonely  way,  walk¬ 
ing  painfully  in  the  sandals  he  had  been  obliged  to  put  on  to 
complete  his  disguise,  sinking  occasionally  ankle-deep  in  mud, 
and  then  trudging  over  a  long  stretch  of  broken  stones  where 
the  road  had  been  mended;  but  not  noticing  nor  caring  for 
pain  and  fatigue,  while  he  felt  that  every  minute  took  him 
nearer  to  the  frontier  hills  where  he  would  be  safe  from  pursuit. 
And  so  he  toiled  on,  till  he  smelled  the  fetid  air  of  the  sulphur 
springs  full  fourteen  miles  from  Rome;  and  at  last,  as  the  road 
began  to  rise  towards  Hadrian’s  Villa,  he  sat  down  upon  a  stone 
by  the  wayside  to  rest  a  little.  He  had  walked  five  hours 
through  the  darkness,  seeing  but  a  few  yards  of  the  broad  road 
before  him  as  he  went.  He  was  weary  and  footsore,  and  the 
night  was  growing  wilder  with  gathering  wind  and  rain  as  the 
storm  swept  down  the  mountains  and  through  the  deep  gorge  of 
Tivoli  on  its  way  to  the  desolate  black  Campagna.  He  felt  that 
if  he  did  not  die  of  exposure  he  was  safe,  and  to  a  man  in  his 
condition  bad  weather  is  the  least  of  evils. 

His  reflections  were  not  sweet.  Five  hours  earlier  he  had 
been  dressed  as  a  fine  gentleman  should  be,  seated  at  a  luxurious 
table  in  the  company  of  a  handsome  and  amusing  woman  who 
was  to  be  his  wife.  He  could  still  almost  taste  the  delicate 
chaud  f void,  the  tender  woodcock,  the  dry  champagne;  he  could 
still  almost  hear  Donna  Tullia’s  last  noisy  sally  ringing  in  his 
ears — and  behold,  he  was  now  sitting  by  the  roadside  in  the 
rain,  in  the  wretched  garb  of  a  begging  monk,  five  hours’ 
journey  from  Rome.  He  had  left  his  affianced  bride  without  a 
word  of  warning,  had  abandoned  all  his  possessions  to  Temis- 
tocle — that  scoundrelly  thief  Temistocle! — and  he  was  utterly 
alone. 

But  as  he  rested  himself,  drawing  his  monk’s  hood  closely 
over  his  head  and  trying  to  warm  his  freezing  feet  with  the 
skirts  of  his  rough  brown  frock,  he  reflected  that  if  he  ever  got 
safely  across  the  frontier  he  would  be  treated  as  a  patriot,  as 
a  man  who  had  suffered  for  the  cause,  and  certainly  as  a  man 
who  deserved  to  be  rewarded.  He  reflected  that  Donna  Tullia 
was  a  woman  who  had  a  theatrical  taste  for  romance,  and  that 
his  present  position  was  in  theory  highly  romantic,  however  un¬ 
comfortable  it  might  be  in  the  practice.  When  he  was  safe  his 
story  would  be  told  in  the  newspapers,  and  he  would  himself 


324 


SARACIHESCA. 


take  care  that  it  was  made  interesting.  Donna  Tullia  would 
read  it,  would  be  fascinated  by  the  tale  of  his  sufferings,  and 
would  follow  him.  His  marriage  with  her  would  then  add  im¬ 
mense  importance  to  his  own  position.  He  would  play  his 
cards  well,  and  with  her  wealth  at  his  disposal  he  might  aspire 
to  any  distinction  he  coveted.  He  only  wished  the  situation 
could  have  been  prolonged  for  three  weeks,  till  he  was  actually 
married.  Meanwhile  he  must  take  courage  and  push  on,  beyond 
the  reach  of  pursuit.  If  once  he  could  gain  Subiaco,  he  could 
be  over  the  frontier  in  twelve  hours.  From  Tivoli  there  were 
vetture  up  the  valley,  cheap  conveyances  for  the  country  people, 
in  which  a  barefooted  friar  could  travel  unnoticed.  He  knew 
that  he  must  cross  the  boundary  by  Trevi  and  the  Serra  di 
Sant*  Antonio.  He  would  inquire  the  way  from  Subiaco. 

While  Del  Ferice  was  thus  making  his  way  across  the  Oam- 
pagna,  Temistocle  was  taking  measures  for  his  own  advantage 
and  safety.  He  had  the  bag  with  his  master’s  clothes,  the 
valuable  watch  and  chain,  and  the  pearl  studs.  He  had  also 
the  key  to  Del  Ferice’s  lodgings,  of  which  he  promised  himself 
to  make  some  use,  as  soon  as  he  should  be  sure  that  the  detec¬ 
tives  had  left  the  house.  In  the  first  place  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  leave  Donna  Tullia  in  ignorance  of  his  master’s  sudden 
departure.  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  telling  her  the 
news,  for  she  would  probably  in  her  rash  way  go  to  Del  Ferice’s 
house  herself,  as  she  had  done  once  before,  and  on  finding  he 
was  actually  gone  she  would  take  charge  of  his  effects,  whereby 
Temistocle  would  be  the  loser.  As  he  walked  briskly  away 
from  the  ruinous  district  near  the  Porta  Maggiore,  and  began  to 
see  the  lights  of  the  city  gleaming  before  him,  his  courage  rose 
in  his  breast.  He  remembered  how  easily  he  had  eluded  the 
detectives  an  hour  and  a  half  before,  and  he  determined  to 
cheat  them  again. 

But  he  had  reckoned  unwisely.  Before  he  had  been  gone 
ten  minutes  the  two  men  suspected,  from  the  prolonged  silence, 
that  something  was  wrong,  and  after  searching  the  lodging 
perceived  that  the  polite  servant  who  had  offered  them  coffee 
had  left  the  house  without  taking  leave.  One  of  the  two 
immediately  drove  to  the  house  of  his  chief  and  asked  for  in¬ 
structions.  The  order  to  arrest  the  servant  if  he  appeared 
again  came  back  at  once.  The  consequence  was  that  when 
Temistocle  boldly  opened  the  door  with  a  ready  framed  excuse 
for  his  absence,  he  was  suddenly  pinioned  by  four  strong  arms, 
dragged  into  the  sitting-room,  and  told  to  hold  his  tongue  in 
the  name  of  the  law.  And  that  is  the  last  that  was  heard  of 
Temistocle  for  some  time.  But  when  the  day  dawned  the  men 
knew  that  Del  Ferice  had  escaped  them. 

The  affair  had  not  been  well  managed.  The  Cardinal  was  a 


SARACINESCA. 


325 


good  detective,  but  a  bad  policeman.  In  his  haste  he  had 
made  the  mistake  of  ordering  Del  Ferice  to  be  arrested  in¬ 
stantly  and  in  his  lodgings.  Had  the  statesman  simply  told 
the  chief  of  police  to  secure  Ugo  as  soon  as  possible  without  any 
scandal,  he  could  not  have  escaped.  But  the  officer  interpreted 
the  Cardinal's  note  to  mean  that  Del  Ferice  was  actually  at  his 
lodgings  when  the  order  was  given.  The  Cardinal  was  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  omniscient  by  his  subordinates,  and  no  one  ever 
thought  of  giving  any  interpretation  not  perfectly  literal  to  his 
commands.  Of  course  the  Cardinal  was  at  once  informed,  and 
telegrams  and  mounted  detectives  were  dispatched  in  all  direc¬ 
tions.  But  Del  Ferice's  disguise  was  good,  and  when  just  after 
sunrise  a  gendarme  galloped  into  Tivoli,  he  did  not  suspect 
that  the  travel-stained  and  pale-faced  friar,  who  stood  telling 
his  beads  before  the  shrine  just  outside  the  Roman  gate,  was 
the  political  delinquent  whom  he  was  sent  to  overtake. 

Donna  Tullia  spent  an  anxious  night.  She  sent  down  to 
Del  Fence's  lodgings,  as  Temistocle  had  anticipated,  and  the 
servant  brought  back  word  that  he  had  not  seen  the  Neapoli¬ 
tan,  and  that  the  house  was  held  in  possession  by  strangers, 
who  refused  him  admittance.  Madame  Mayer  understood  well 
enough  what  had  happened,  and  began  to  tremble  for  herself. 
Indeed  she  began  to  think  of  packing  together  her  own  valu¬ 
ables,  in  case  she  should  be  ordered  to  leave  Rome,  for  she  did 
not  doubt  that  the  Holy  Office  was  in  pursuit  of  Del  Ferice,  in 
consequence  of  some  discovery  relating  to  her  little  club  of 
malcontents.  She  trembled  for  Ugo  with  an  anxiety  more 
genuine  than  any  feeling  of  hers  had  been  for  many  a  day,  not 
knowing  whether  he  had  escaped  or  not.  But  on  the  follow¬ 
ing  evening  she  was  partially  reassured  by  hearing  from  Val- 
darno  that  the  police  had  offered  a  large  reward  for  Del 
Ferice’s  apprehension.  Valdarno  declared  his  intention  of 
leaving  Rome  at  once.  His  life,  he  said,  was  not  safe  for  a 
moment.  That  villain  Gouache,  who  had  turned  Zouave,  had 
betrayed  them  all,  and  they  might  be  lodged  in  the  Sant' 
Uffizio  any  day.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  after  he  discovered  how 
egregiously  he  had  been  deceived  by  Del  Ferice,  the  Cardinal 
grew  more  suspicious,  and  his  emissaries  were  more  busy  than 
they  had  been  before.  But  Valdarno  had  never  manifested 
enough  wisdom,  nor  enough  folly,  to  make  him  a  cause  of 
anxiety  to  the  Prime  Minister.  Nevertheless  he  actually  left 
Rome  and  spent  a  long  time  in  Paris  before  he  was  induced  to 
believe  that  he  might  safely  return  to  his  home. 

Roman  society  was  shaken  to  its  foundations  by  the  news  of 
the  attempted  arrest,  and  Donna  Tullia  found  some  slight 
compensation  in  becoming  for  a  time  the  centre  of  interest. 
She  felt,  indeed,  great  anxiety  for  the  man  she  was  engaged  to 


326 


SARACIXESCA. 


marry;  but  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  also  that  she 
was  living  in  an  element  of  real  romance,  of  which  she  had 
long  dreamed,  but  of  which  she  had  never  found  the  smallest 
realisation.  Society  saw,  and  speculated,  and  gossiped,  after 
its  fashion;  but  its  gossip  was  more  subdued  than  of  yore,  for 
men  began  to  ask  who  was  safe,  since  the  harmless  Del  Ferice 
had  been  proscribed.  Old  Saracinesca  said  little.  He  would 
have  gone  to  see  the  Cardinal  and  to  offer  him  his  congratula¬ 
tions,  since  it  would  not  be  decent  to  offer  his  thanks;  but  the 
Cardinal  was  not  in  a  position  to  be  congratulated.  If  he  had 
caught  Del  Ferice  he  would  have  thanked  the  Prince  instead 
of  waiting  for  any  expressions  of  gratitude;  but  he  did  not 
catch  Del  Ferice,  for  certain  very  good  reasons  which  will  ap¬ 
pear  in  the  last  scene  of  this  comedy. 

Three  days  after  Ugo’s  disappearance,  the  old  Prince  got 
into  his  carriage  and  drove  out  to  Saracinesca.  More  than  a 
month  had  elapsed  since  the  marriage,  and  he  felt  that  he  must 
see  his  son,  even  at  the  risk  of  interrupting  the  honeymoon. 
On  the  whole,  he  felt  that  his  revenge  had  been  inadequate. 
Del  Ferice  had  escaped  the  Holy  Office,  no  one  knew  how;  and 
Donna  Tullia,  instead  of  being  profoundly  humiliated,  as  she 
would  have  been  had  Del  Ferice  been  tried  as  a  common  spy, 
was  become  a  centre  of  attraction  and  interest,  because  her 
affianced  husband  had  for  some  unknown  cause  incurred  the 
displeasure  of  the  great  Cardinal,  almost  on  the  eve  of  her 
marriage — a  state  of  things  significant  as  regards  the  tone  of 
Roman  society.  Indeed  the  whole  circumstance,  which  was 
soon  bruited  about  among  all  classes  with  the  most  lively 
adornment  and  exaggeration,  tended  greatly  to  increase  the 
fear  and  hatred  which  high  and  low  alike  felt  for  Cardinal  An- 
tonelli — the  man  who  was  always  accused  and  never  heard  in 
his  own  defence. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

People  wondered  that  Giovanni  and  Corona  should  have 
chosen  to  retire  into  the  country  for  their  honeymoon,  instead 
of  travelling  to  France  and  England,  and  ending  their  wed- 
ding-trip  in  Switzerland.  The  hills  were  so  very  cold  at  that 
early  season,  and  besides,  they  would  be  utterly  alone.  People 
could  not  understand  why  Corona  did  not  take  advantage  of 
the  termination  of  her  widowhood  to  mix  at  once  with  the 
world,  and  indemnify  herself  for  the  year  of  mourning  by  a 
year  of  unusual  gaiety.  But  there  were  many,  on  the  other 
hand,  who  loudly  applauded  the  action,  which,  it  was  main¬ 
tained,  showed  a  wise  spirit  of  economy,  and  contrasted  very 
favourably  with  the  extravagance  recently  exhibited  by  young 
couples  who  in  reality  had  far  more  cause  to  be  careful  of  their 


SARACINESCA. 


327 


money.  Those  who  held  this  view  belonged  to  the  old,  patri¬ 
archal  class,  the  still  flourishing  remnant  of  the  last  generation, 
who  prided  themselves  upon  good  management,  good  morals, 
and  ascetic  living;  the  class  of  people  in  whose  marriage-con- 
tracts  it  was  stipulated  that  the  wife  was  to  have  meat  twice 
a-day,  excepting  on  fast  days,  a  drive — the  trottata,  as  it  used 
to  be  called — daily,  and  two  new  gowns  every  year.  Even  in 
our  times,  when  most  of  that  generation  are  dead,  these  clauses 
are  often  introduced;  in  the  first  half  of  the  century  they  were 
universal.  A  little  earlier  it  used  to  be  stipulated  that  the 
“  meat  ”  was  not  to  be  capra ,  goat’s-flesh,  which  was  considered 
to  be  food  fit  only  for  servants.  But  the  patriarchal  generation 
were  a  fine  old  class  in  spite  of  their  economy,  and  they  loudly 
applauded  Giovanni’s  conduct. 

No  one,  however,  understood  that  the  solitude  of  Saracinesca 
was  really  the  greatest  luxury  the  newly-married  couple  could 
desire.  They  wanted  to  be  left  alone,  and  they  got  their  wish. 
No  one  had  known  of  the  preparations  Giovanni  had  made  for 
his  wife’s  reception,  and  had  any  idea  of  the  changes  in  the 
castle  reached  the  ears  of  the  aforesaid  patriarchs,  they  would 
probably  have  changed  their  minds  in  regard  to  Giovanni’s 
economy.  The  Saracinesca  were  not  ostentatious,  but  they 
spent  their  money  royally  in  their  own  quiet  way,  and  the  in¬ 
terior  of  the  old  stronghold  had  undergone  a  complete  trans¬ 
formation,  while  the  ancient  grey  stones  of  the  outer  walls  and 
towers  frowned  as  gloomily  as  ever  upon  the  valley.  Vast  halls 
had  been  decorated  and  furnished  in  a  style  suited  to  the  an¬ 
tiquity  of  the  fortress,  small  sunny  rooms  had  been  fitted  up 
with  the  more  refined  luxury  which  was  beginning  to  be  appre¬ 
ciated  in  Italy  twenty  years  ago.  A  great  conservatory  had 
been  built  out  upon  the  southern  battlement.  The  aqueduct 
had  been  completed  successfully,  and  fountains  now  played  in 
the  courts.  The  old-fashioned  fireplaces  had  been  again  put 
into  use,  and  huge  logs  burned  upon  huge  fire-dogs  in  the  halls, 
shedding  a  ruddy  glow  upon  the  trophies  of  old  armour,  the 
polished  floors,  and  the  heavy  curtains.  Quantities  of  magnifi¬ 
cent  tapestry,  some  of  which  had  been  produced  when  Corona 
first  visited  the  castle,  were  now  hung  upon  the  stairs  and  in 
the  corridors.  The  great  baldacchino,  the  canopy  which  Roman 
princes  are  privileged  to  display  in  their  ante-chambers,  was 
draped  above  the  quartered  arms  of  Saracinesca  and  Astrar- 
dente,  and  the  same  armorial  bearings  appeared  in  rich  stained 
glass  in  the  window  of  the  grand  staircase.  The  solidity  and 
rare  strength  of  the  ancient  stronghold  seemed  to  grow  even 
more  imposing  under  the  decorations  and  improvements  of  a 
later  age,  and  for  the  first  time  Giovanni  felt  that  justice  had 
been  done  to  the  splendour  of  his  ancestral  home. 


328 


SARACINESCA. 


Here  he  and  his  dark  bride  dwelt  in  perfect  unity  and  happi¬ 
ness,  in  the  midst  of  their  own  lands,  surrounded  by  their  own 
people,  and  wholly  devoted  to  each  other.  But  though  much 
of  the  day  was  passed  in  that  unceasing  conversation  and  ex¬ 
change  of  ideas  which  seem  to  belong  exclusively  to  happily- 
wedded  man  and  wife,  the  hours  were  not  wholly  idle.  Daily 
the  two  mounted  their  horses  and  rode  along  the  level  stretch 
towards  Aquaviva  till  they  came  to  the  turning  from  which 
Corona  had  first  caught  sight  of  Saracinesca.  Here  a  broad 
road  was  already  broken  out;  the  construction  was  so  far  ad¬ 
vanced  that  two  miles  at  least  were  already  serviceable,  the 
gentle  grade  winding  backwards  and  forwards,  crossing  and 
recrossing  the  old  bridle-path  as  it  descended  to  the  valley  below; 
and  now  from  the  furthest  point  completed  Corona  could  dis¬ 
tinguish  in  the  dim  distance  the  great  square  palace  of  Astrar- 
dente  crowning  the  hills  above  the  town.  Thither  the  two 
rode  daily,  pushing  on  the  work,  consulting  with  the  engineer 
they  employed,  and  often  looking  forward  to  the  day  when  for 
the  first  time  their  carriage  should  roll  smoothly  down  from 
Saracinesca  to  Astrardente  without  making  the  vast  detour 
which  the  old  road  followed  as  it  skirted  the  mountain.  There 
was  an  inexpressible  pleasure  in  watching  the  growth  of  the 
work  they  had  so  long  contemplated,  in  speculating  on  the  ad¬ 
vantages  they  would  obtain  by  so  uniting  their  respective  vil¬ 
lages,  and  in  feeling  that,  being  at  last  one,  they  wrere  working 
together  for  the  good  of  their  people.  For  the  men  who  did 
the  work  were  without  exception  their  own  peasants,  who  were 
unemployed  during  the  winter  time,  and  who,  but  for  the 
timely  occupation  provided  for  them,  would  have  spent  the  cold 
months  in  that  state  of  half-starved  torpor  peculiar  to  the 
indigent  agricultural  labourer  when  he  has  nothing  to  do — at 
that  bitter  season  when  father  and  mother  and  shivering  little 
ones  watch  wistfully  the  ever-dwindling  sack  of  maize,  as  day 
by  day  two  or  three  handfuls  are  ground  between  the  stones  of 
the  hand-mill  and  kneaded  into  a  thick  unwholesome  dough, 
0  the  only  food  of  the  poorer  peasants  in  the  winter.  But  now 
every  man  who  could  handle  pickaxe  and  bore,  and  sledge¬ 
hammer  and  spade,  was  out  upon  the  road  from  dawn  to  dark, 
and  every  Saturday  night  each  man  took  home  a  silver  scudo 
in  his  pocket;  and  where  people  are  sober  and  do  not  drink 
their  wages,  a  silver  scudo  goes  a  long  way  further  than  nothing. 
Yet  many  a  lean  and  swarthy  fellow  there  would  have  felt  that 
he  was  cheated  if  besides  his  money  he  had  not  carried  home 
daily  the  remembrance  of  that  tall  dark  lady’s  face  and  kindly 
eyes  and  encouraging  voice,  and  they  used  to  watch  for  the 
coming  of  the  “ gran  principessa”  as  anxiously  as  they  ex¬ 
pected  the  coming  of  the  steward  with  the  money-bags  on  a 


SARACINESCA. 


329 


Saturday  evening.  Often,  too,  the  wives  and  daugnters  of  the 
rough  workers  would  bring  the  men  their  dinners  at  noonday, 
rather  than  let  them  carry  away  their  food  with  them  in  the 
morning,  just  for  the  sake  of  catching  a  sight  of  Corona,  and 
of  her  broad-shouldered  manly  husband.  And  the  men  worked 
with  a  right  good  will,  for  the  story  had  gone  abroad  that  for 
years  to  come  there  would  be  no  lack  of  work  for  willing  hands. 

So  the  days  sped,  and  were  not  interrupted  by  any  incident 
for  several  weeks.  One  day  Gouache,  the  artist  Zouave,  called 
at  the  castle.  He  had  been  quartered  at  Subiaco  with  a  part 
of  his  company,  but  had  not  been  sent  on  at  once  to  Saraci- 
nesca  as  he  had  expected.  How,  however,  he  had  arrived  with 
a  small  detachment  of  half-a-dozen  men,  with  instructions  to 
watch  the  pass.  There  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  his  being 
sent  in  that  direction,  for  Saracinesca  was  very  near  the  frontier, 
and  lay  on  one  of  the  direct  routes  to  the  Serra  di  Sant’  An¬ 
tonio,  which  was  the  shortest  hill-route  into  the  kingdom  of 
Naples;  the  country  around  was  thought  to  be  particularly 
liable  to  disturbance,  and  though  no  one  had  seen  a  brigand 
there  for  some  years,  the  mountain-paths  were  supposed  to  be 
infested  with  robbers.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  smuggling  carried  on  through  the  pass,  and  from  time 
to  time  some  political  refugee  found  his  way  across  the  frontier 
at  that  point. 

Gouache  was  received  very  well  by  Giovanni,  and  rather 
coldly  by  Corona,  who  knew  him  but  slightly. 

“  I  congratulate  you,”  said  Giovanni,  noticing  the  stripes  on 
the  young  man’s  sleeves ;  “  I  see  that  you  have  risen  in  grade.” 

"Yes.  I  hold  an  important  command  of  six  men.  I  spend 
much  time  in  studying  the  strategy  of  Conde  and  Napoleon. 
By  the  bye,  I  am  here  on  a  very  important  mission.” 

“  Indeed!” 

“  I  suppose  you  give  yourselves  the  luxury  of  never  reading 
the  papers  in  this  delightful  retreat.  The  day  before  yesterday 
„  the  Cardinal  attempted  to  arrest  our  friend  Del  Ferice — have 
you  heard  that  ?” 

“  No — what — has  he  escaped  ?  ”  asked  Giovanni  and  Corona 
in  a  breath.  But  their  tones  were  different.  Giovanni  had 
anticipated  the  news,  and  was  disgusted  at  the  idea  that  the 
fellow  had  got  off.  Corona  was  merely  surprised. 

“  Yes.  Heaven  knows  how — he  has  escaped.  I  am  here  to 
cut  him  off  if  he  tries  to  get  to  the  Serra  di  Sant’  Antonio.” 

Giovanni  laughed. 

“  He  will  scarcely  try  to  come  this  way — under  the  very  walls 
of  my  house,”  he  said. 

“  He  may  do  anything.  He  is  a  slippery  fellow.”  Gouache 
proceeded  to  tell  all  he  knew  of  the  circumstances. 


330 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


“  That  is  very  strange,”  said  Corona,  thoughtfully.  Then 
after  a  pause,  she  added,  “  We  are  going  to  visit  our  road,  Mon¬ 
sieur  Gouache.  Will  you  not  come  with  us  ?  My  husband  will 
give  you  a  horse.” 

Gouache  was  charmed.  He  preferred  talking  to  Giovanni 
and  looking  at  Corona's  face  to  returning  to  his  six  Zouaves,  or 
patrolling  the  hills  in  search  of  Del  Ferice.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  three  were  mounted,  and  riding  slowly  along  the  level 
stretch  towards  the  works.  As  they  entered  the  new  road  Gio¬ 
vanni  and  Corona  unconsciously  fell  into  conversation,  as  usual, 
about  what  they  were  doing,  and  forgot  their  visitor.  Gouache 
dropped  behind,  watching  the  pair  and  admiring  them  with 
true  artistic  appreciation.  He  had  a  Parisian's  love  of  luxury 
and  perfect  appointments  as  well  as  an  artist's  love  of  beauty, 
and  his  eyes  rested  with  unmitigated  pleasure  on  the  riders  and 
their  horses,  losing  no  detail  of  their  dress,  their  simple  English 
accoutrements,  their  firm  seats  and  graceful  carriage.  But  at 
a  turn  of  the  grade  the  two  riders  suddenly  slipped  from  his 
field  of  vision,  and  his  attention  was  attracted  to  the  marvel¬ 
lous  beauty  of  the  landscape,  as  looking  down  the  valley 
towards  Astrardente  he  saw  range  on  range  of  purple  hills  ris¬ 
ing  in  a  deep  perspective,  crowned  with  jagged  rocks  or  sharply 
defined  brown  villages,  ruddy  in  the  lowering  sun.  He  stopped 
his  horse  and  sat  motionless,  drinking  in  the  loveliness  before 
him.  So  it  is  that  accidents  in  nature  make  accidents  in  the 
lives  of  men. 

But  Giovanni  and  Corona  rode  slowly  down  the  gentle  in¬ 
cline,  hardly  noticing  that  Gouache  had  stopped  behind,  and 
talking  of  the  work.  As  they  again  turned  a  curve  of  the 
grade  Corona,  who  was  on  the  inside,  looked  up  and  caught 
sight  of  Gouache's  motionless  figure  at  the  opposite  extremity 
of  the  gradient  they  had  just  descended.  Giovanni  looked 
straight  before  him,  and  was  aware  of  a  pale-faced  Capuchin 
friar  who  with  downcast  eyes  was  toiling  up  the  road,  seem¬ 
ingly  exhausted;  a  particularly  weather-stained  and  dilapidated 
friar  even  for  those  wild  mountains. 

“  Gouache  is  studying  geography,”  remarked  Corona. 

“  Another  of  those  Capuccini !  ”  exclaimed  Giovanni,  in¬ 
stinctively  feeling  in  his  pocket  for  coppers.  Then  with  a 
sudden  movement  he  seized  his  wife's  arm.  She  was  close  to 
him  as  they  rode  slowly  along  side  by  side. 

“  Good  God!  Corona,”  he  cried,  "it  is  Del  Ferice!”  Corona 
looked  quickly  at  the  monk.  His  cowl  was  raised  enough  to 
show  his  features;  but  she  would, perhaps,  not  have  recognised 
his  smooth-shaven  face  had  Giovanni  not  called  her  attention 
to  it. 

Del  Ferice  had  recognised  them  too,  and,  horror-struck,  he 


SARACINESCA. 


331 


paused,  trembling  and  uncertain  what  to  do.  He  had  taken 
the  wrong  turn  from  the  main  road  below;  unaccustomed  to 
the  dialect  of  the  hills,  he  had  misunderstood  the  peasant  who 
had  told  him  especially  not  to  take  the  bridle-path  if  he  wished 
to  avoid  Saracinesca.  He  stopped,  hesitated,  and  then,  pulling 
his  cowl  over  his  face,  walked  steadily  on.  Giovanni  glanced 
up  and  saw  that  Gouache  was  slowly  descending  the  road,  still 
absorbed  in  contemplating  the  landscape. 

“  Let  him  take  his  chance,”  muttered  Saracinesca.  “  What 
should  I  care  ?  ” 

“  No — no!  Save  him,  Giovanni, — he  looks  so  miserable,” 
cried  Corona,  with  ready  sympathy.  She  was  pale  with  excite¬ 
ment. 

Giovanni  looked  at  her  one  moment  and  hesitated,  but  her 
pleading  eyes  were  not  to  be  refused. 

“  Then  gallop  back,  darling.  Tell  Gouache  it  is  cold  in  the 
valley — anything.  Make  him  go  back  with  you — I  will  save 
him  since  you  wish  it.” 

Corona  wheeled  her  horse  without  a  word  and  cantered  up 
the  hill  again.  The  monk  had  continued  his  slow  walk,  and 
was  now  almost  at  Giovanni's  saddle-bow.  The  latter  drew 
rein,  staring  hard  at  the  pale  features  under  the  cowl. 

“  If  you  go  on  you  are  lost,”  he  said,  in  low  distinct  tones. 
“  The  Zouaves  are  waiting  for  you.  Stop,  I  say!”  he  exclaimed, 
as  the  monk  attempted  to  pass  on.  Leaping  to  the  ground  Gio¬ 
vanni  seized  his  arm  and  held  him  tightly.  Then  Del  Ferice 
broke  down. 

“You  will  not  give  me  up — -for  the  love  of  Christ!”  he 
whined.  “  Oh,  if  you  have  any  pity — let  me  go — I  never  meant 
to  harm  you - •” 

“  Look  here,”  said  Giovanni.  “  I  would  just  as  soon  give 
you  up  to  the  Holy  Office  as  not;  but  my  wife  asked  me  to  save 
you - •” 

“  God  bless  her !  Oh,  the  saints  bless  her!  God  render  her 
kindness !  ”  blubbered  Del  Ferice,  wLo,  between  fear  and  ex¬ 
haustion,  was  by  this  time  half  idiotic. 

“Silence!”  said  Giovanni,  sternly.  “You  may  thank  her  if 
you  ever  have  a  chance.  Come  with  me  quietly.  I  will  send 
one  of  the  workmen  round  the  hill  with  you.  You  must  sleep 
at  Trevi,  and  then  get  over  the  Serra  as  best  you  can.”  He  ran 
his  arm  through  the  bridle  of  his  horse  and  walked  by  his 
enemy's  side. 

“  You  will  not  give  me  up,”  moaned  the  wretched  man. 
“  For  the  love  of  heaven  do  not  betray  me — I  have  come  so  far 
— I  am  so  tired.” 

“  The  wolves  may  make  a  meal  of  you,  for  all  I  care,”  re¬ 
turned  Giovanni.  “  I  will  not.  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  will 


332 


SARACI^ESCA. 


send  you  safely  on,  if  you  will  stop  this  whining  and  behave 
like  a  man.” 

At  that  moment  Del  Ferice  was  past  taking  offence,  but  for 
many  a  year  afterwards  the  rough  words  rankled  in  his  heart. 
Giovanni  was  brutal  for  once;  he  longed  to  wring  the  fellow’s 
neck;  or  to  give  him  up  to  Gouache  and  the  Zouaves.  The 
tones  of  Ugo’s  voice  reminded  him  of  injuries  not  so  old  as  to 
be  yet  forgotten.  But  he  smothered  his  wrath  and  strode  on, 
having  promised  his  wife  to  save  the  wretch,  much  against  his 
will.  It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  they  reached  the 
works,  the  longest  quarter  of  an  hour  Del  Ferice  remembered 
in  his  whole  life.  Neither  spoke  a  word.  Giovanni  hailed 
a  sturdy-looking  fellow  who  was  breaking  stones  by  the  road¬ 
side. 

“  Get  up,  Carluccio,”  he  said.  “  This  good  monk  has  lost 
his  way.  You  must  take  him  round  the  mountain,  above 
Ponza  to  Arcinazzo,  and  show  him  the  road  to  Trevi.  It  is 
a  long  way,  but  the  road  is  good  enough  after  Ponza — it  is 
shorter  than  to  go  round  by  Saracinesca,  and  the  good  friar  is 
in  a  hurry.” 

Carluccio  started  up  with  alacrity.  He  greatly  preferred 
roaming  about  the  hills  to  breaking  stones,  provided  he  was 
paid  for  it.  He  picked  up  his  torn  jacket  and  threw  it  over 
one  shoulder,  setting  his  battered  hat  jauntily  on  his  thick 
black  curls. 

“  Give  us  a  benediction,  padre  mio,  and  let  us  be  off — non  e 
mica  un  passo — it  is  a  good  walk  to  Trevi.” 

Del  Ferice  hesitated.  He  hardly  knew  what  to  do  or  say, 
and  even  if  he  had  wished  to  speak  he  was  scarcely  able  to 
control  his  voice.  Giovanni  cut  the  situation  short  by  turning 
on  his  heel  and  mounting  his  horse.  A  moment  later  he  was 
cantering  up  the  road  again,  to  the  considerable  astonishment 
of  the  labourers,  who  were  accustomed  to  see  him  spend  at 
least  half  an  hour  in  examining  the  work  done.  But  Giovanni 
was  in  no  humour  to  talk  about  roads.  He  had  spent  a  horri¬ 
ble  quarter  of  an  hour,  between  his  desire  to  see  Del  Ferice 
punished  and  the  promise  he  had  given  his  wife  to  save  him. 
He  felt  so  little  sure  of  himself  that  he  never  once  looked 
back,  lest  he  should  be  tempted  to  send  a  second  man  to  stop 
the  fugitive  and  deliver  him  up  to  justice.  He  ground  his 
teeth  together,  and  his  heart  was  full  of  bitter  curses  as  he 
rode  up  the  hill,  hardly  daring  to  reflect  upon  what  he  had 
done.  That,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  he  had  wittingly  helped  a 
traitor  to  escape,  troubled  his  conscience  little.  His  instinct 
bade  him  destroy  Del  Ferice  by  giving  him  up,  and  he  would 
have  saved  himself  a  vast  deal  of  trouble  if  he  had  followed  his 
impulse.  But  the  impulse  really  arose  from  a  deep-rooted 


SARACINESCA. 


333 


desire  for  revenge,  which,  having  resisted,  he  regretted  bitterly 
— very  much  as  Shakespeare's  murderer  complained  to  his 
companion  that  the  devil  was  at  his  elbow  bidding  him  not 
murder  the  duke.  Giovanni  spared  his  enemy  solely  to  please 
his  wife,  and  half-a-dozen  words  from  her  had  produced  a 
result  which  no  consideration  of  mercy  or  pity  could  have 
brought  about 

Corona  and  Gouache  had  halted  at  the  top  of  the  road  to 
wait  for  him.  By  an  imperceptible  nod,  Giovanni  informed  his 
wife  that  Del  Ferice  was  safe. 

“  I  am  sorry  to  have  cut  short  our  ride,"  he  said,  coldly. 
“  My  wife  found  it  chilly  in  the  valley." 

Anastase  looked  curiously  at  Giovanni's  pale  face,  and  won¬ 
dered  whether  anything  was  wrong.  Corona  herself  seemed 
strangely  agitated. 

“Yes,"  answered  Gouache,  with  his  gentle  smile;  “the 
mountain  air  is  still  cold." 

So  the  three  rode  silently  back  to  the  castle,  and  at  the  gate 
Gouache  dismounted  and  left  them,  politely  declining  a  rather 
cold  invitation  to  come  in.  Giovanni  and  Corona  went  silently 
up  the  staircase  together,  and  on  into  a  small  apartment  which 
in  that  cold  season  they  had  set  apart  as  a  sitting-room.  When 
they  were  alone,  Corona  laid  her  hands  upon  Giovanni's 
shoulders  and  gazed  long  into  his  angry  eyes.  Then  she  threw 
her  arms  round  his  neck  and  drew  him  to  her. 

“  My  beloved,"  she  cried,  proudly,  “  you  are  all  I  thought — 
and  more  too." 

“  Do  not  say  that,"  answered  Giovanni.  “  I  would  not  have 
lifted  a  finger  to  save  that  hound,  but  for  you." 

“  Ah,  but  you  did  it,  dear,  all  the  same,"  she  said,  and  kissed 
him. 

On  the  following  evening,  without  any  warning,  old  Saraci- 
nesca  arrived,  and  was  warmly  greeted.  After  dinner  Giovanni 
.told  him  the  story  of  Del  Ferice's  escape.  Thereupon  the  old 
gentleman  flew  into  a  towering  rage,  swearing  and  cursing  in  a 
most  characteristic  manner,  but  finally  declaring  that  to  arrest 
spies  was  the  work  of  spies,  and  that  Giovanni  had  behaved  like 
a  gentleman,  as  of  course  he  could  not  help  doing,  seeing  that 
he  was  his  own  son. 

And  so  the  curtain  falls  upon  the  first  act.  Giovanni  and 
Corona  are  happily  married.  Del  Ferice  is  safe  across  the 
frontier  among  his  friends  in  Naples,  and  Donna  Tullia  is  wait¬ 
ing  still  for  news  of  him,  in  the  last  days  of  Lent,  in  the  year 
1866.  To  carry  on  the  tale  from  this  point  would  be  to  enter 
upon  a  new  series  of  events  more  interesting,  perhaps,  than 
those  herein  detailed,  and  of  like  importance  in  the  history  of 


334 


SARACINESCA. 


the  Saracinesca  family,  but  forming  by  their  very  nature  a  dis¬ 
tinct  narrative — a  second  act  to  the  drama,  if  it  may  be  so 
called.  I  am  content  if  in  the  foregoing  pages  I  have  so  far 
acquainted  the  reader  with  those  characters  which  hereafter 
will  play  more  important  parts,  as  to  enable  him  to  comprehend 
the  story  of  their  subsequent  lives,  and  in  some  measure  to 
judge  of  their  future  by  their  past,  regarding  them  as  acquaint¬ 
ances,  if  not  sympathetic,  yet  worthy  of  some  attention. 

Especially  I  ask  for  indulgence  in  matters  political.  I  am 
not  writing  the  history  of  political  events,  but  the  history  of  a 
Roman  family  during  times  of  great  uncertainty  and  agitation. 
If  any  one  says  that  I  have  set  up  Del  Ferice  as  a  type  of  the 
Italian  Liberal  party,  carefully  constructing  a  villain  in  order 
to  batter  him  to  pieces  with  the  artillery  of  poetic  justice,  I 
answer  that  I  have  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  Del  Ferice  is 
indeed  a  type,  but  a  type  of  a  depraved  class  which  very  un¬ 
justly  represented  the  Liberal  party  in  Rome  before  1870,  and 
which,  among  those  who  witnessed  its  proceedings,  drew  upon 
the  great  political  body  which  demanded  the  unity  of  Italy  an 
opprobrium  that  body  was  very  far  from  deserving.  The  honest 
and  upright  Liberals  were  waiting  in  1866.  What  they  did, 
they  did  from  their  own  country,  and  they  did  it  boldly.  To 
no  man  of  intelligence  need  I  say  that  Del  Ferice  had  no  more 
affinity  with  Massimo  D’Azeglio,  with  the  great  Cavour,  with 
Cavour’s  great  enemy  Giuseppe  Mazzini,  or  with  Garibaldi,  than 
the  jackal  has  with  the  lion.  Del  Ferice  represented  the  scum 
which  remained  after  the  revolution  of  1848  had  subsided.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  were  used  and  despised  by  their 
betters,  and  in  using  whom  Cavour  himself  was  provoked  into 
writing  “  Se  noi  facessimo  per  noi  quel  che  faciamo  per  ITtalia, 
saremmo  gran  bricconi” — if  we  did  for  ourselves  what  we  do 
for  Italy,  we  should  be  great  blackguards.  And  that  there 
were  honourable  arid  just  men  outside  of  Rome  will  sufficiently 
appear  in  the  sequel  to  this  veracious  tale. 


THE  END. 


THE  “  SARACINESCA”  SERIES. 

SARACINESCA, 

SANT’  ILARIO, 

DON  ORSINO. 

Three  volumes,  uniform,  in  box,  $3.00. 


“ Saracinesca  ”  is  the  first  of  a  group  of  novels  by  the  same  author 
called  the  “ Saracinesca  ”  Series. 


The  Subsequent  Fortunes  of  the  Saracinesca  Family  are  to  be 

found  in 


Sant’  Ilario. 

A  SEQUEL  TO  “  SARACINESCA.” 

|2mo,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 


A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story.  .  .  -  Admirably  developed, 

with  a  natmalneUbeyond  praise.  .  .  .  It  must  rank  with  ‘  Gre.fenstem  as 

the  best  work  the  author  has  produced.”-^  York  Tribune. 


The  Third  Volume  of  the  Series,  continuing  the  Fascinating 
History  of  the  Saracinesca  Family,  is 

Don  Orsino. 

A  SEQUEL  TO  “SARACINESCA”  AND  “SANT’  ILARIO.” 

|2mo,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

“  We  are  inclined  to  regard  the  book  as  the  most  ingenious  of  all  Mr. 
Crawford’s  fictions.”— Evening  Bulletin. 

Mr.  Crawford’s  latest  Roman  story,  “  Pietro  Ghisleri ,”  also 
introduces  characters  from  this  famous  series. 


These  volumes  are  only  to  be  had  in  cloth,  bound  uniformly, 
price  $i.oo  each,  of  all  booksellers. 


UNIFORM  EDITION 


OF 

F.  Marion  Crawford’s  Complete  Novels. 

12mo,  Cloth,  One  Dollar  each. 


Marion  Darche. 

A  STORY  WITHOUT  COMMENT. 

Mr.  Crawford’s  new  work  “  Marion  Darche  ”  is  destined  to  have  a  great  popularity. 
It  is  in  a  new  vein.  In  its  scenes  and  incidents  it  is  American  through  and  through.  The 
situations  described  are  almost  sensationally  dramatic,  and  the  plot  ...  is  skilfully  de¬ 
veloped. — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

Pietro  Ghisleri. 

The  story  has  power,  is  highly  dramatic  in  parts,  and  the  threads  of  the  plot  are 
held  firmly  in  the  hands  of  a  master. — Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

Children  of  the  King. 

A  TALE  OF  SOUTHERN  ITALY. 

It  is  a  delicious  picture  of  Calabria  and  Sorrento  and  Capri  that  Mr.  Crawford  gives 
us  in  the  new  book  with  the  charming  name. —  The  Nation. 

The  Three  Fates. 

The  strength  of  the  story  lies  in  its  portrayal  of  the  aspirations,  disciplinary  efforts, 
trials,  and  triumphs  of  the  man  who  is  a  born  writer,  and  who,  by  long  and  painful  ex¬ 
periences,  learns  the  good  that  is  in  him  and  the  way  in  which  to  give  it  effectual  expres¬ 
sion.  The  analytical  quality  of  the  book  is  excellent,  and  the  individuality  of  each  one  of 
the  very  dissimilar  three  fates  is  set  forth  in  an  entirely  satisfactory  manner.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Crawford  has  manifestly  brought  his  best  qualities  as  a  student  of  human  nature  and  his 
finest  resources  as  a  master  of  an  original  and  picturesque  style  to  bear  upon  this  story. 
Taken  for  all  in  all  it  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  of  all  his  productions  in  fiction,  and  it 
affords  a  view  of  certain  phases  of  American,  or  perhaps  we  should  say  of  New  York,  life 
that  have  not  hitherto  been  treated  with  anything  like  the  same  adequacy  and  felicity. — 
Boston  Beacon. 


2 


UNIFORM  EDITION  OF  F.  MARION  CRA  IVFORD  'S  COMPLETE  NO  PELS. 


The  Witch  of  Prague. 

A  FANTASTIC  TALE.  ILLUSTRATED  BY  W.  J.  HENNESSY. 

Mr.  Crawford  has  written  in  many  keys,  but  never  in  so  strong  a  one  as  that  which 
dominates  “  The  Witch  of  Prague.”  .  .  .  The  artistic  skill  with  which  this  extraordinary 
story  is  constructed  and  carried  out  is  admirable  and  delightful.  .  .  .  Mr.  Crawford  has 
scored  a  decided  triumph,  for  the  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained  throughout.  ...  A  very 
remarkable,  powerful,  and  interesting  story. — New  York  Tribune. 


A  Cigarette=maker’s  Romance. 

It  is  a  touching  romance,  filled  with  scenes  of  great  dramatic  power  —Boston  Com¬ 
mercial  Bulletin. 

In  the  “  Cigarette-maker’s  Romance  ”  Mr.  Crawford  may  be  said  to  have  given  new 
evidence  of  the  novel-maker’s  art.  ...  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  every  one  who  reads  Mr. 
Crawford’s  tale  will  take  heed  of  the  rare  finish  of  his  literary  work,  a  model  in  its  kind. — 
The  Critic. 

Greifenstein, 

“  Greifenstein  ”  is  a  remarkable  novel,  and  while  it  illustrates  once  more  the  author’s 
unusual  versatility,  it  also  shows  that  he  has  not  been  tempted  into  careless  writing  by  the 
vogue  of  his  earlier  books.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  weak  or  small  or  frivolous  in  the  story. 
The  author  deals  with  tremendous  passions  working  at  the  height  of  their  energy.  His 
characters  are  stern,  rugged,  determined  men  and  women,  governed  by  powerful  preju¬ 
dices  and  iron  conventions,  types  of  a  military  people,  in  whom  the  sense  of  duty  has 
been  cultivated  until  it  dominates  all  other  motives,  and  in  whom  the  principle  of  “  no¬ 
blesse  oblige  ”  is,  so  far  as  the  aristocratic  class  is  concerned,  the  fundamental  rule  of  con¬ 
duct.  What  such  people  may  be  capable  of  is  startlingly  shown. — New  York  Tribune. 


Mr.  Isaacs. 

A  TALE  OF  MODERN  INDIA. 


The  writer  first  shows  the  hero  in  relation  with  the  people  of  the  East  and  then  skil¬ 
fully  brings  into  connection  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  It  is  in  this  showing  of  the  different 
effects  which  the  two  classes  of  minds  have  upon  the  central  figure  of  the  story  that  one 
of  its  chief  merits  lies.  The  characters  are  .original,  and  one  does  not  recognize  any  of 
the  hackneyed  personages  who  are  so  apt  to  be  considered  indispensable  to  novelists,  and 
which,  dressed  in  one  guise  or  another,  are  but  the  marionettes,  which  are  all  dominated 
by  the  same  mind,  moved  by  the  same  motive  force.  The  men  are  all  endowed  with  in¬ 
dividualism  and  independent  life  and  thought.  .  .  .  There  is  a  strong  tinge  of  mysticism 
about  the  book  which  is  one  of  its  greatest  charms. — Boston  Transcript. 

This  is  a  fine  and  noble  story.  It  has  freshness  like  a  new  and  striking  scene  on  which 
one  has  never  looked  before.  It  has  character  and  individuality.  It  has  meaning.  It  is 
lofty  and  uplifting.  It  is  strongly,  sweetly,  tenderly  written.  It  is  in  all  respects  an 
uncommon  novel.  ...  In  fine,  “  Mr.  Isaacs”  is  an  acquaintance  to  be  made. —  The  Liter¬ 
ary  World. 


3 


UNIFORM  EDITION  OF  F.  MARION  CRA  JVFORD'S  COMPLETE  NOVELS. 


Dr.  Claudius. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 

There  is  a  suggestion  of  strength,  of  a  mastery  of  facts,  of  a  fund  of  knowledge,  that 
speaks  well  for  future  production.  ...  To  be  thoroughly  enjoyed,  however,  this  book 
must  be  read,  as  no  mere  cursory  notice  can  give  an  adequate  idea  of  its  many  interesting 
points  and  excellences,  for  without  a  doubt  “  Dr.  Claudius”  is  the  most  interesting  book 
that  has  been  published  for  many  months,  and  richly  deserves  a  high  place  in  the  public 
favor. — St.  Louis  Spectator. 

“  Dr.  Claudius  ”  is  surprisingly  good,  coming  after  a  story  of  so  much  merit  as  “Mr. 
Isaacs.”  The  hero  is  a  magnificent  specimen  of  humanity,  and  sympathetic  readers 
will  be  fascinated  by  his  chivalrous  wooing  of  the  beautiful  American  countess. — Boston 
Traveller. 

With  the  Immortals. 

The  strange  central  idea  of  the  story  could  have  occurred  only  to  a  writer  whose  mind 
was  very  sensitive  to  the  current  of  modern  thought  and  progress,  while  its  execution,  the 
setting  it  forth  in  proper  literary  clothing,  could  be  successfully  attempted  only  by  one 
whose  active  literary  ability  should  be  fully  equalled  by  his  power  of  assimilative  knowl¬ 
edge  both  literary  and  scientific,  and  no  less  by  his  courage  and  capacity  for  hard  work. 
The  book  will  be  found  to  have  a  fascination  entirely  new  for  the  habitual  reader  of 
novels.  Indeed  Mr.  Crawford  has  succeeded  in  taking  his  readers  quite  above  the  ordi¬ 
nary  plane  of  novel  interest. — Boston  Advertiser. 

Marzio’s  Crucifix. 

We  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  this  work  belongs  to  the  highest  department  of 
character-painting  in  words. — Churchman. 

We  have  repeatedly  had  occasion  to  say  that  Mr.  Crawford  possesses  in  an  extraor¬ 
dinary  degree  the  art  of  constructing  a  story.  His  sense  of  proportion  is  just,  and  his  nar¬ 
rative  flows  along  with  ease  and  perspicuity.  It  is  as  if  it  could  not  have  been  written 
otherwise,  so  naturally  does  the  story  unfold  itself,  and  so  logical  and  consistent  is  the 
sequence  of  incident  after  incident.  As  a  story  “  Marzio’s  Crucifix  ”  is  perfectly  con¬ 
structed. — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

Khaled. 

A  TALE  OF  ARABIA. 

Throughout  the  fascinating  story  runs  the  subtlest  analysis,  suggested  rather  than 
elaborately  worked  out,  of  human  passion  and  motive,  the  building  out  and  development 
of  the  character  of  the  woman  who  becomes  the  hero’s  wife  and  whose  love  he  finally  wins 
being  an  especially  acute  and  highly-finished  example  of  the  story-teller’s  art.  .  .  .  That 
it  is  beautifully  written  and  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader,  fanciful  as  it  all  is,  to  the 
very  end,  none  who  know  the  depth  and  artistic  finish  of  Mr.  Crawford’s  work  need  be 
told. —  The  Chicago  Times. 


4 


UNIFORM  EDITION  OF  F.  MARION  CRA  WFORD'S  COMPLETE  NOVELS. 


It  abounds  in  stirring  incidents  and  barbaric  picturesqueness  ;  and  the  love-struggle  of 
the  unloved  Khaled  is  manly  in  its  simplicity  and  noble  in  its  ending.  Mr.  Crawford  has 
done  nothing  better  than,  if  he  has  done  anything  as  good  as,  “  Khaled.” — The  Mail  and 
Express. 

Zoroaster. 

The  novel  opens  with  a  magnificent  description  of  the  march  of  the  Babylonian  court 
to  Belshazzar’s  feast,  with  the  sudden  and  awful  ending  of  the  latter  by  the  marvellous 
writing  on  the  wall  which  Daniel  is  called  to  interpret.  From  that  point  the  story  moves 
on  in  a  series  of  grand  and  dramatic  scenes  and  incidents  which  will  not  fail  to  hold  the 
reader  fascinated  and  spellbound  to  the  end. — Christian  at  Work. 

As  a  matter  of  literary  art  solely,  we  doubt  if  Mr.  Crawford  has  ever  before  given  us 
better  work  than  the  description  of  Belshazzar’s  feast  with  which  the  story  begins,  or  the 
death-scene  with  which  it  closes. —  The  Christian  Union. 

A  Tale  of  a  Lonely  Parish. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this  brief  and  vivid  story. 
...  It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human  sympathy,  as  well  as  thoroughly  artistic 
in  its  nice  balancing  of  the  unusual  with  the  commonplace,  the  clever  juxtaposition  of 
innocence  and  guilt,  comedy  and  tragedy,  simplicity  and  intrigue. — Critic. 

Of  all  the  stories  Mr.  Crawford  has  written,  it  is  the  most  dramatic,  the  most  finished, 
the  most  compact.  .  .  .  The  taste  which  is  left  in  one’s  mind  after  the  story  is  finished  is 
exactly  what  the  fine  reader  desires  and  the  novelist  intends.  ...  It  has  no  defects.  It  is 
neither  trifling  nor  trivial.  It  is  a  work  of  art.  It  is  perfect. — Boston  Beacon. 

The  plot  is  unfolded  and  the  character-drawing  given  with  the  well-known  artistic 
skill  of  Mr.  Crawford,  and  to  those  who  have  not  before  read  it  this  story  will  furnish  a 
rare  literary  treat. — Home  Journal. 

To  Leeward. 

The  lives  of  the  characters  are  sketched  with  boldness  ;  their  actions  spring  from 
motives  clearly  apparent,  and  the  issue  is  logical.  There  is  no  exceeding  subtlety  of 
thought  in  the  book  ;  the  passions  are  the  elementary  ones  of  love,  hate,  jealousy,  and  the 
moral  lies  deep  in  the  very  picture  of  life  which  is  presented.— Atlantic  Monthly. 

A  Roman  Singer. 

An  American  Politician. 

Paul  Pa  toff. 

Saracinesca. 

Sant’  Ilario. 

Don  Orsino. 

MACMILLAN  &  CO., 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE, 


NEW  YORK. 


Macmillan’s  Dollar  Novels. 


EACH  NOVEL  COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 

Price  $1 .00  Each. 


BOLDREWOOD,  ROLF. 

Nevermore. 

Sidney-Side  Saxon. 

CLIFFORD,  MRS.  W.  K. 

The  Last  Touches. 

COOPER,  EDWARD  H. 

Richard  Escott. 

CRAWFORD,  F.  MARION. 

Marion  Darche. 

Pietro  Ghisleri. 

Children  of  the  King. 

Don  Orsino,  a  sequel  to  “  Saraci- 
nesca”  and  “  Sant’  Ilario.” 

The  Three  Fates. 

The  Witch  of  Prague. 

Khaled. 

A  Cigarette-Maker’s  Romance. 
Sant’  Ilario,  a  sequel  to  “  Saraci- 
nesca.” 

Greifenstein. 

With  the  Immortals. 

To  Leeward. 

A  Roman  Singer. 

An  American  Politician. 

Paul  Patoff. 

Marzio’s  Crucifix. 

Saracinesca. 

A  Tale  of  a  Lonely  Parish. 
Zoroaster. 

Dr.  Claudius. 

Mr.  Isaacs. 

CUSHING,  PAUL. 

The  Great  Chin  Episode. 


DICKENS,  CHARLES. 

The  Pickwick  Papers. 

Oliver  Twist. 

Nicholas  Nickleby. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit. 

The  Old  Curiosity  Shop. 

Barnaby  Rudge. 

Dombey  and  Son. 

Christmas  Books. 

Sketches  by  Boz. 

David  Copperfield. 

American  Notes,  and  Pictures 
from  Italy. 

Letters  of  Charles  Dickens. 
Bleak  House.  In  the  Press. 

Little  Dorrit.  “ 

Christmas  Stories.  “ 

Hard  Times.  “ 

Great  Expectations.  “ 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  “ 

Uncommercial  Traveller.** 

Our  Mutual  Friend.  “ 

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